The Forest for the Trees
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: Sequel to Man in the Making. Randy, Tatum, and Jamie have all learned to take control of their own lives. But they're about to find out that you can only truly move into your future once you've fully confronted your past. Rated for language.
1. Randy One Year Later

**The Forest for the Trees**

**A/N: Okay, first of all - what the hell happened to this site? I step away for a couple of months to catch my barings, and I come back to the most confusing upload ever! Well, not ever, but confusing when I was used to the other. I guess I should just post more often and not complain about it, huh? **

**Anyway, I feel like I should apologize. When I finished Man in the Making, I told you that the third in this Randy/Tatum/Jamie trilogy would be forthcoming. I didn't know that it would take me months to finally put pen to paper and hash out a story. But thanks for Shannon and Kim for helping me work through the issues that I was having with it. Now the story is complete, just needing to be posted, and so that part should go fairly quickly, I think. I hope. Of course, I've learned my lesson about making promises of quick postings, right?**

**As always, reviews are appreciated and I hope you enjoy! Oh, and I'm not going to specifically state who is narrating each chapter, but it should become fairly obvious within the first paragraph or so.**

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Hey, welcome back! Seems like it wasn't that long ago that y'all were checkin' in on me and James poolside, right? Yeah, well time flies and all. So I guess I should probably catch ya up on what's been goin' down in Randyland since last time. That was about a year ago now. Crazy.

So Jamie took a job with the PR team and spends most of her time tryin' to wrangle me and my teammates. Not an enviable job, if you ask me. Of course, I haven't really been so hard to nail down, seeing as I broke my fuckin' collarbone. I'm alright - no worries. I just got the belt back a few hours ago, so life is money right now. I got no complaints. Actually, to be honest with you, I can't remember the last time I felt this damn good. About everything. Life's just good, isn't it?

"How 'bout another round, kids?" Just as John raises his glass to catch the waitress's attention, Maria grabs his arm and pulls it back down toward the table.

Shaking my head, I hold up a finger. "This one's on me, man," I announce.

But Maria's not really worried about who's buyin'. She's more concerned with narrowing her eyes at her husband and asking, "Sweetie, are you sure you should?" in a severely sweet tone.

Alright, so almost everything is good. My life is good, anyway. John and Maria? Not so good. I guess that's the kind of thing that happens after a few years together? I don't know, seeing as I have no plans to take that plunge, but things between the Tweedle Dee and Dumb are not so peachy. It seems Maria is convinced that John is turning into some kind of bumbling alcoholic.

"Am I sure I should what?" he asks, pulling his arm away like she's holding a lighter under his bicep or something. "Hell yeah, I'm sure!" John lets out a boisterous laugh and tips his empty glass toward the blond at my side. "How 'bout you, James? You up for another round, baby doll?"

Surprised? I mean, I know I told you that Jamie's still with the company, but are you surprised to find us together? Probably not - nobody in my family was surprised. Hardly anybody we work with was surprised. Everybody likes to act like they saw it comin' from a mile away, but I don't know how. I sure as hell didn't. I mean, we've been dating for about three months now, and there's no big story to tell. We were friends, and then we were waking up naked together.

It's nothin' serious or anything as of yet, but Jamie's the coolest chick I know. She doesn't just tell me what to do, but she's not afraid to tell me what she thinks. And in moments like this, when John and Maria are on the edge of something ugly, Jamie gets this look that says she knows exactly what's going on, and she can handle it. "I'm good," she answers John softly.

I'll tell ya this: Jamie's come a long way in the last year. She's miles away from the battered woman I met eighteen months ago. She's more self-possessed and assured. She knows what she wants, and she just keep going after it, even when that scares her or freaks her out, for whatever reason. But when shit hits the fan, especially when John and Maria start arguing, she kind of retreats. Almost like a war vet havin' a flashback or something. And I hate that repressed look in her eyes more than anything. Makes me wanna take both of these two chuckleheads by the back of the neck and knock their heads together. Jamie shouldn't have to go back to that place in her mind. Ever.

Of course, John doesn't notice the irritation on my face, or the slight blush of embarrassment creeping up Jamie's neck. "Lightweights," he snicks under his breath, tipping his empty tumber to his lips. His tongue, visible through the clear glass, stretches to extract the last of the nectar from the very bottom of the tumbler.

"John." Maria has moved beyond amused, or affectionate. Her voice is firm and full of warning. And it doesn't take a genius to know that our night of celebrating my victorious ascent to the top of the pack once more is headed downhill. And fast.

"Maria," John mocks in a high-pitched voice that causes her to fix her lips in a tight line. If somebody doesn't intervene, things are going to get publicly ugly. There is one thing about John and Maria that not everybody knows how to handle. One thing that some of our friends don't really dig, or respect. But I, for one, appreciate the fact that they have no shame in expressing themselves, no matter who may be around. Whether jamming their tongues down one another's throats, or screaming until their faces turn the color of tomatoes, they just are who they are. All the time. Unapologetically.

Moving my arm from the back of Jamie's chair to her shoulder, I turn my face to my girlfriend. "Ya know what, James?" She looks at me with those pleading eyes, begging me to fix the situation. It doesn't happen often anymore, this rising need to save everyone I care about from everything dangerous in their paths. But once in awhile, occasionally, Jamie will turn those big, doe eyes on me and I feel my fists start to ball and my mind start to race for a solution. "Why don't you go show Maria that new dress you bought for the Hall of Fame ceremony?"

Without word or question, she nods and pushes away from the table, motioning for Maria to join her.

But Maria's not interested in Jamie's dress. Or anything, really, besides shifting the target of her eye-daggers from John to me. "Randy," she says my name in the same tone that she just used on her husband a minute ago.

Maybe she forgets that that we are not married, and she does not scare me. Rolling my shoulders, I smile easily. "Don't worry about it, Sweetheart. I got it covered." I nod my head toward the place where Jamie is standing behind my chair. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, a glimmer of hope daring to glimmer just behind her wide eyes. Ya know, it's kinda nice to be the stable guy for once, right? The one the girls know they can count on to keep a level head, instead of knockin' somebody's ass out? I like that.

As the ladies head off, I hear Jamie filling Maria in on the fight (disagreement) we had over the appropriate cut and color of her dress at the store yesterday. Seriously, I don't know all the rules, but a red mini is not out of line for a formal ceremony, is it? I mean, you shoulda seen her legs in that dress . . . Mmm!

Anyway, the waitress places two more glasses before John and myself, and my best friend rolls his eyes and grunts with a heavy sigh. "That woman, I swear to God, Orton!" he exclaims.

"That woman loves you're stinkin' drunk ass, man," I point out, settling into the groove that is most comfortable for us as I lean back in my chair. John and I have been friends for year. I can say whatever the fuck I want to him. In his current condition, I'm pretty sure he won't remember to be angry with me in the morning anyway.

This time, though, he knows that I'm right. He knows that Maria loves him, and we both know he's still fuckin' crazy about her. He just get a little . . . loud . . . and obnoxious when he drinks too much. Oh, who am I kidding? Cena's loud and obnoxious all the time, but he gets a little more careless when he's drunk. "She don't have to be so fuckin' overbearing about it all the fucking time. That's all I'm sayin'."

He takes a drink and rolls his eyes, leaning against the table for support. If he didn't, I'm pretty sure he would fall over. "She's seen alcohol fuck people up, dude. People she cares about." I don't wanna preach, but I feel like I have to say something.

"Jesus Christ!" he explodes and I can't help cringing just a bit. "Is this gonna turn into another fucking Tatum retosp . . . respespec . . . fuck it. You know what I'm sayin', man."

I know which word he's trying to say, but that doesn't mean I like it. Look, here's the thing: I hate that Maria thinks John has a drinking problem. 1. Because I disagree, but I can't say that, because Maria says that I should know better because I watched it happen to Tatum. And 2. Because any time I try to be the nice guy for Maria and say something to John, he accuses me of turning the conversation into a walk down Tatum lane. I can't fucking win with these two.

"No, it's not another Tatum retrospective. But who knows you better than Maria, man?" She's his wife, after all. She knows things about him that I probably don't, and really don't want to.

So his answer surprises me. "You do."

But I can roll with the shocking responses from John. I've been doing it for well over ten years, after all. "Okay, then trust me when I say you better check yourself."

"Before I wreck myself?" he snickers and then smacks the table with his flat hand, as though it's the funniest thing he's ever said.

It's not. "No," I correct him, even as a chuckle attempts to bubble out of my chest. I mean, let's face it, it was kinda funny. The drunken kind of ridiculous idiot funny, anyway. "Before you get . . . "

"Served?" he interjects with another chortle, flopping back in the booth and momentarily losing control of his head.

When it rolls back in my general direction and his cloudy eyes meet my face, I snort. I can't help it. He's just a moron and sometimes it's funny, okay? "Yes," I nod. "Before you get served some divorce papers that cost your ass a hell of a lot of money."

But John rolls his eyes. Again. He does that a lot after a few drinks. "She's not gonna divorce me."

And we have officially reached the line. The boundary, if you will. It's pointless to argue with John from here. He's not even hearing me, let alone comprehending what I have to say. "After this," I nod to the half-empty glass in front of him, and then the one in my hand. "I'm goin' to bed. And if you can't walk your own ass to your room, I'm leavin' ya here." Maria can figure out what to do with his hungover self in the morning. I'm done.

"Dude," John squints his eyes toward me and then turns his head to cough - it's a delightful, phlegm-y sound that makes me wanna gag - before looking back in my direction. Well, he sort of looks in my direction. It's the kind wandering eye expression that says he's not really sure which of the three Randy's he sees are actually real. "Is it this annoying when I tell you what to do?"

Ha! Now even you can see that was funny! "Nah," I shake my head and then allow the smile to spread over my face. "It's so much fuckin' worse when you do it."

He raises his middle finger. "Fucker," he mumbles and I can tell that he's about finished.

Here's the thing that tells me John is **not **an alcoholic. He knows his limits. Maria may not realize it, but he has a process. When we first get to the bar, he pounds drinks back pretty quick, but then he slows himself down midway through the night. And by the time we're ready to pack it in, he's done. Give him a few minutes - he'll start to clear up again. John knows his boundaries. And that knowledge alone is enough to relax me in my seat.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his arm, John just watches me for a second and then shakes his head. "You're takin' Jamie to Hall of Fame?" he asks foggily, his eyebrow raised in confusion.

Why that part of the conversation chose now to jump into his brain, I don't know, but I guess I gotta roll with the punches. See, John likes to pretend that he knows what's best for me, that he knows exactly what I'm thinking and feeling at all times. Like I told you before - some things never change. His obsession at the moment, sober or not, is proving that Jamie and I are not really a couple, but just friends with benefits.

And like I told you before - he's an idiot.

"We've been together for three months, man," I remind him, rolling my empty glass along the Formica top of the table. "This thing with us," I stop because I don't really know how to explain this to a guy who can barely hold his own enormous head upright. "Forget it. You're not gonna get it," I give up with a sigh and pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I've been workin' on givin' 'em up - really, I have - but it's not an easy addiction to fight, ya know? I guess, technically, no addiction is, but . . . That's really not the point right now.

He just grunts and looks at his watch, like he can actually tell time right now. "I know enough to know you ain't in love with her." So? I never claimed to be in love with her. Even Jamie will tell you that, sure, we love each other. But we're not, like, **in **love yet. "I don't know, man." John's face screws up and I'm not sure if his alcohol is coming back to him, or if he's thinking about me and Jamie. "It's weird."

I chuckle to myself. "That might mean somethin' if you weren't piss drunk, dude," I tell him.

But John just holds up a hand like I'm the one who doesn't know what I'm talking about. "I ain't drunk enough not to notice you and Jamie act like a brother and sister. You ain't in love." I wanna tell him to go to hell, but he believes he's on to something. I can tell because he leans forward in his seat and taps the table with his index finger. "Let me ask you a question, man. If Tatum wanted to get back together with you," he starts.

And I interrupt him before he can go on. "Tatum's not interested. She's got a boyfriend," I remind him of the latest information Maria reported on my illusive ex.

"A boyfriend who is married," John adds another piece of the story - the one I like to pretend doesn't exist. My Tatum wouldn't date a married man. It's not her thing. "You and I both know it's not her, like, perfect match."

Ya know what I wish? I wish that he would just get off it. And Maria, too. They're both so fucking convinced that saying her name every damn day will force me to fly across the country, take her in my arms, and profess my undying love. They seem to think that filling me in on every damn detail of her melodrama of a life is going to force our happily-ever-after. "Don't matter," I reiterate for what feels like the millionth time. "She made her choice. And I made mine. We have totally separate lives now, man."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but John just drains his glass and slams it onto the table. "Come on," he motions for me to stand. At this point, I'm pretty sure it's just so he can watch me and remember how standing is actually done. He follows and then hitches his shorts onto his hips while sniffling and blinking his eyes. After a slap to his own face, he stretches his mouth and clears his throat. Yeah, he's in great shape. "Gotta get upstairs and beg my woman for forgiveness."

We walk toward the elevator and he only sways once. "Dude, we both know you ain't gonna beg," I tell him.

He snickers as we step into the elevator, that signature grin of amusement on his lips. "Nah, prob'ly not. But I will get on my knees. And she will forget she's mad at me."

He might be drunk, but he's not an alcoholic. I would know it if he was. John's fine. We both are. Better than ever.


	2. Jamie on the Inside

**The Forest for the Trees**

A year ago, it felt like my life was swirling down the toilet pretty quickly, ya know? With Josh and Randy, not to mention my own friggin' issues, I was pretty much a lost cause. At least, it seemed like it at the time. But I guess it's true what they say - a year really can make a difference. I don't know who 'they' are, or if 'they' really say that, but it's true. This past year has been monumental for me.

Randy and I have really put a lot of work into the issues we had last time you checked in with us. On our own, and together, we've both gotten to a place that's pretty healthy. Now, don't get me wrong. That's not to say we don't still have our issues, just like anybody else, but we're light years ahead of where we were. And I can't really put into words just how good that really feels.

"I'm not crazy, right?" Maria interrupts my thoughts as she paces the front of her hotel room, one hand on her hip and the other buried in her red hair. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and staring at the floor as if she can see John's face there. "He's drinking a lot, right?"

She stops and meets my eye, but I'm not really sure what to say. I mean, being a part of Randy's life means being a part of John and Maria's, too, but I wouldn't exactly say that we're close. It was hard enough for me to let Randy into my life, and while I think his friends are great to hang out with, we're not staying up late, ordering cheesy Pay Per View, and eating cookie dough together, ya know? "I really don't know if I'm," I start to answer.

But Maria's brow furrows as she lowers herself to the bed at my side. "You're mom was an alcoholic, right? And Josh?" She grabs my hand. "He drank a lot, too, didn't he?"

"Okay." I clear my throat. Remember how I just said that we're not all close? Well, we're not, and I'm not sure that I want this chick bringing up parts of my past that I don't even talk to Randy about very often. "That's really," I shake my head. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but I also don't want to talk about my mother with her. "It's really personal, Maria."

She's not easily distracted, though. Releasing one of my hands, she pushes a strand of her long hair behind her ear and licks her lips. "Oh, come on, Jamie. We're friends now," she pleads with me, and it doesn't matter if I correct her or not, she's going to keep pretending that we are. "If I can't ask you, who can I ask?"

Oh, I don't know. Randy? Maybe she could talk to her own mother, or her sister, or that lady in make up that she sees once a week? Anybody but me. I think her alcoholic husband and their issues are maybe the last thing I want to think about right now. "Tatum?" I suggest. Because even though I don't really know Tatum, I feel like I do. Seeing as one of my three 'friends' is talking about her all the damn time.

"Well, yeah," Maria agrees, standing again and running her hands over her denim-clad thighs. "But she's kinda busy right now. Apparently," she rolls her eyes, "being a drug counselor eats up a lot of time. And you're my second best."

"Uh, thanks."

"Second best _friend_," she clarifies when my face and tone convey the insulted sarcasm in my brain. The second best? Gee, I wonder why I'm not a big fan of the memory of one Tatum Sharpe. "I mean, you and I? We haven't known each other that long, so I can't really consider you," she starts to explain.

And it's kind of painful, the way she's backtracking and digging a bigger whole for herself, so I just hold up a hand and shake my head. "No, it's okay, Maria. I get it." I scoot up the mattress to rest against the headboard and pull my knees up to my chest. My therapist says that this position, and the one where I cross my arms over my chest, are defensive gestures. Maybe she's right. Because I would like to protect myself from this conversation right about now.

Maria walks to the window and stares out at the city before turning back and walking to the door. She yanks it open and looks both directions down the hall and then slams the door again and leans against it, letting out an exasperated sigh. I'm not sure I've ever seen another woman so worked up over something. And even more than that, I'm not sure exactly what she's worked up over. Nobody's really filled me in on what started this whole 'alcoholic' issue between the newlyweds in the first place.

"Look, I don't know, Maria. I mean, John is light years away from where my mother is," I open up, even if just a little bit. Maria's so stuck in her own head, with her own problems, that she's not really listening for anything other than 'you're right' anyway, so I figure it's safe. "And he's really nothing like Josh, either," I go on. He's not. John's not kicking her ass or treating her like property, so the way I see it? She's found one of the good ones. "I just don't know."

Sometimes Randy tells me that he hates my honesty. He hates the way that I have no problem telling him that I don't know something. But some days, I feel like it's the only really valuable thing I have left to offer anyone. I know that, for me, the best thing anyone can tell you when you're confused is "I don't know." At least then you know you're not the only one who can't figure shit out, ya know?

Maria moves to the bed and flops back across the bottom of the mattress. "I know it seems like I'm being overprotective," she sighs, her eyes trained on the ceiling and pooling with tears, holding steadily unshed, but just waiting for permission to fall. "It seems like I'm some stupid, nagging wife or something, but I have never loved anybody like I love John," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper as it cracks under the weight of her thoughts. "I think it would kill me if I lost him like . . ." Biting her lip, she closes her eyes, either because she can't bare the thought, or because she can't believe she was about to say it.

"Like Randy lost Tatum?" I fill in the blanks for her. She nods, and I suddenly feel really sorry for her. I mean, Randy and I were friends long before we were anything else, and I know how hard it was for him to watch Tatum fade away like she did. She went to rehab, but they didn't make it through the process as a couple, so I can see why that example would somewhat terrify her.

But Tatum got better, ya know? They're not a couple anymore, but they're both healthier. I'm sure that's not what Maria wants to hear right now, but in my mind? That's a lot more important than whatever crazy, drama-filled roller coaster ride of a relationship they used to have.

"They don't even speak anymore, Jamie," Maria finally allows the tears to flow, not even bothering to wipe them away. "Hell, they don't even speak **about** each other anymore. It's just tragic. I mean, they were so good together and now . . ." Biting her lip again, she turns her face toward me and blushes slightly. "I can't keep my foot out of my mouth tonight, can I?"

I just shrug. What else am I supposed to do? I mean, I could freak out about it, but what good would that do in this situation? Randy sent me up here to keep an eye on Maria, to make sure that didn't do anything crazy. If I tell her that I don't care about her problem, I'm just sick of hearing Tatum's name fifty times a week, I'm pretty sure I won't be doing my job.

"Look, Maria, my boyfriend was madly in love with someone who had a problem. And he did what he thought was right to help her. She did what she thought was right to help him. And they were both right." I'm still being honest, by the way. My head knows that the words I'm saying to Maria are the truth, even if my heart doesn't exactly feel that way all of the time. "I'm reaping the benefits of those decisions, and I know that. I have a past, too," I add, just like I've told myself so many times in the past.

Before Maria can call my bluff, the door opens and Randy winks at me before stepping inside the room to let John enter. "As promised," he motions to the man walking toward the bed. "Safe, without a scratch," he adds when Maria sits up at her husband's side, her eyes raking over him as he deposits his shirt on the floor and tosses his baseball cap onto the dresser.

When she's convinced that John's parts and pieces are all firmly in place, she turns her wide eyes to the place where I'm joining Randy near the door. "Thanks, Randy," she whispers.

Randy just nods and motions for me to head back toward our room. When his hand touches the small of my back, I feel my heart begin to race. I can't tell you how many times I've reminded myself that we're friends first, and whatever else we've become second. I keep telling myself to guard my heart, and to protect our friendship first and foremost, that it's the most important thing. But it's hard to remember anything at all when Randy's fingers come in contact with any part of my body.

He unlocks our hotel room door and stands aside for me to enter first. "Sorry to shoo you away like that tonight, James," he apologizes as he shuts the door behind us.

"Yeah?" I ask, my eyebrow arching. I've thought of very little tonight other than how different my life has become in the last year, and about exes and problems and drama. But now? Randy's taking his tee shirt off and I'm not thinking of anything but that chiseled chest, and that satisfied smirk that he gets when I've taken him to a place he didn't think shy little Jamie was capable of taking him. "You could make it up to me, ya know?"

He just growls from somewhere deep inside his throat and tosses me back against the plush covers of our bed. He can worry about the other shit later. For right now, he's my best friend, not John's. He's my boyfriend, not Tatum's. Tonight, Randy Orton is mine. And I'm not sharing him with anyone.


	3. Tatum Makes a Difference

**The Forest for the Trees**

"Mornin', Doc."

"Good morning, Tatum. You're looking fetching today. As usual."

Lord, is there anything hotter than a sexy doctor showering you with flattery? I think not. I tell him all of the time that he is the reason I took his job to begin with, but he always just shakes his head and says he knows I did it to help other people.

People like me. Addicts. I know - the last time you saw me, a rehab center is probably the last place you thought I'd be working, right? As fucked up as I was, attempting to help anyone else was the most ridiculous concept ever, I know. But that was almost three years ago now. Well, two and a half. A lot can change in that amount of time.

Let me give you the Reader's Digest version of my life since we last spoke. I've been clean and sober for right at three years now. About six months ago, I decided to resume my dream of being a world renowned fashion designer. I felt like I was in a pretty stable place and that I could manage it pretty handily, so I sent some sketches to an old contact and scored a job offer from a wardrobe supervisor at a film studio in Hollywood.

Any doctor will tell you that Los Angeles is the last place that a recovering addict should move if she has a hope of staying clean. It's kind of like the Columbia of the United States. In the six months that I've lived here, I think I've come in contact with someone who knows someone who can hook me up with any drug I ever had an issue with. Without even trying, I've plopped myself into the belly of the beast.

It only took me about three weeks to become overwhelmed with the temptation. No, I didn't relapse. But I wanted to. Bad. So along with the meetings that I've been faithfully attending since my car accident back in the day, I started seeing a drug counselor. After about two months, he told me about a friend of his who worked at a rehab center in Pasadena. He said he thought that I might be a good fit for the staff here.

For some reason, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about the opportunity. There are days when I don't feel worthy of offering advice to anyone. But on some days, I look at a kid struggling with this huge monster they're sure they can't defeat, and I know I'm in the right place. Fashion design was my dream, but drug counselling is my calling. I know that now.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that the good doctor is one of the most sexually attractive men I've met in a long, long time. He's amazing. Smart. Beautiful. Insightful. Caring. Compassionate. He loves what he does, and there's nothing sexier than a man who truly believes in his work. He's just . . . he's amazing.

Sometimes I find myself staring at him, zoning out as I remember the last time we were together in his office. Or in my apartment. Or in the back of my car. Have I mentioned that he's amazing? Because he is. "So, we doin' lunch today or what?" I ask when one of the other orderlies has left us alone at the nurse's station.

The doctor looks up from his clipboard and smiles brightly, shaking his head slightly. "I'm swamped today, Sweetheart," he tells me. "But you talk to Sylvia today and dinner's on me, okay?"

"Funny," I grin over the top of my coffee mug. "Every time you say that, I end up with dinner on me."

The innuendo doesn't even phase him as he signs the form on his board and then shoots me another winning smile. "And yet, I never hear you complain."

Until now. "Sylvia?" I whine. I know whining isn't really all that attractive, but I'd rather slit my own wrists than sit alone in a room with that spoiled little actress bitch. She makes Britney look perfectly well-adjusted. Ugh.

"She's like any other addict, Tate," he reminds me evenly.

I hate it when he stops being my boyfriend and starts being my boss. "She's self-absorbed and entitled," I pout, taking the chart from him and glancing at the therapist's last notes on the petite blond.

He just smirks. "Exactly," he states as though that's exactly what he meant.

"Alright, fine," I concede, just like we both know I always do. Brushing my shoulder against his as I pass, I stop and whisper. "It's a good thing you're so sexy."

He just smiles and nudges me. "Thank you."

And just like that, I do as I'm told and spend the next two hours hashing out bull shit with Sylvia, the world's most annoying, crack-addicted celebrity. I know I should sound a little bit more sympathetic, and I really do feel her pain when she talks about her father leaving them and studio heads taking advantage of her Midwestern naivete. But until she takes some responsibility for herself, and stops being such a damn finger-pointer, she's not going to get better. And she doesn't seem to believe me when I tell her that.

The only silver lining is that her 'people' always seem to sneak candy into her room when they come to visit, and since I can't let her break the rules of 'no outside substances', I confiscate, and eat them, during her sessions. Maybe it's a bitchy move, but she's not walk in the park, and I think I deserve a reward.

Standing from the chair opposite the gaunt young woman, I push my hair behind my ear and bid Sylvia adieu. "You have lunch in twenty minutes, Kiddo," I tell her after checking my watch.

Sylvia stands with me and studies me for a minute. "You know, you're gonna miss me when I'm gone, Tatum," she finally says.

I just roll my eyes. She's scheduled for release in two weeks, but she's been talking about 'when she's gone' and 'when she gets the hell out' since she checked in. "I'm gonna miss candy necklaces and pixie stix when you're gone," I wink, finishing the last of the powdered candy in my hand before tossing the wrapper in the paper.

She follows me out the door, and stuffs her hands deeply into her pockets. "I'm gonna miss you, too," she manages to whisper, as though she's trying not to let anyone else hear her admit it. "You're, like, the only really real person here. The only one who's completely honest with me."

"I'm the only one who's never seen any of your movies, and never will," I point out. Here's the thing I learned long ago in rehab - babying anybody helps nobody. I'm not a Sylvia Dunham fan, and I never will be. No use in pretending I am.

At first, she's not sure if I'm kidding. But then her patented smile spreads across her full lips as she points in my direction. "Honesty," she giggles, disappearing into her room.

Making my way to the nurse's station, I just shake my head at the craziness that is my life now. Three years ago, I couldn't remember my own name from one day to the next. Now I'm helping a drug-addicted starlet find her way back to a healthy lifestyle. It's crazy, isn't it?

"Tatum, you have a call," an orderly tells me as I set my report on the table.

Taking the phone from the girl, I smile and push my hair behind my ear again. "Thanks, Amber." Turning my back on the bustle of the hallways behind me, I allow my eyes to drift over the wall of photos on the wall. "Tatum Sharpe."

"Hey, friend," Maria greets in my ear and I feel my heart jump a little bit. It's not often I get a call in the middle of the afternoon from my best friend in the world. Makes a girl feel loved, ya know?

I place the call on hold for a second and move toward my office, the one I share with the other counselors. Sinking to my desk, I allow my eyes to drift over my own photographs. "You get my message?" I ask when I finally pick up the phone again. My eyes are drawn to a double frame - one side boasting a picture of Maria and I in my apartment right after I moved in. The other side is one of my sponsor, Charlotte, and I hugging outside of a movie theater. My girls - the two who keep my head on straight - always watch over me when I'm working.

Maria confirms that she did, indeed, get my message. Doc is sending me to Texas for a training seminar in a couple of weeks, and I remembered that Maria said they were going to be in Dallas at the same time. I left her a message yesterday to ask if she might want to get together for dinner. The old gang. Like old times. Without the hangovers and embarrassing old fights, of course.

"All systems go," she says. "Me, John, Randal, and James," she adds, though the tail end of the statement drifts off.

I just nod, but say nothing as my eyes move to another picture - one of John, Maria, Randy, and I backstage at a show. Don't get me wrong - I don't keep the thing because Randy's in it. But it's a really great picture of John and Maria, and my hair looks really cute. Plus, he's right in the middle of the photograph, so I can't really cut him out.

Not that I want to. I mean, Randy was a huge part of my life, right? And I'm totally over him. We're in good places now. He's with Jamie. I'm with the good doctor. We split up to give each other space to heal. And we did. Our lives are right where they are supposed to be. I know that. So does he. Just looking at his picture isn't as hard as it used to be.

"James," Maria interrupts my thoughts and I blink my eyes to refocus. "As in Jamie. As in Randy's new girlfriend," she clarifies like I might be stupid. Or high again.

I just chuckle. "I know who she is, Maria," I remind her. "We've met, remember?" Yeah, they weren't a couple back then, but I met Jamie. In St. Louis. And I'll never forget her long legs or her perfect blond hair. Or the way that she looked at Randy with such admiration. I guess I kind of knew, even back then, that they would be something eventually.

But Maria doesn't seem convinced that I'm as 'okay' with it as I am projecting. She's my best friend, and she thinks she knows me. "So it's cool with you that she's going to be there?"

I swallow the lump that is rising, inexplicable, in the back of my throat. "Yeah," I answer emphatically, forcing my eyes to a picture of the doctor and myself taped to the top of my computer screen. "Look, I'm happy for Randy. And I have a man, too, remember?"

"A married man," she huffs, and I know it's disapproval. I just don't care.

I roll my eyes. Like she's such April Fresh perfection. "Semantics," I cut her off before she has time to launch into another lecture on the sanctity of marriage. "I've gotta get down to the dining hall for lunch, but I'll give you a call when I know what my itinerary looks like in Dallas."

I disconnect the phone and push away from the desk, my eyes drawn back to the photo of the Fantastic Four once again. God, Randy was so pretty back then. We were all so happy. But as the doctor swings into my office to ask how it went with Sylvia, I remind myself that my life now is pretty damn good. I'm happy. Really happy. Everything is exactly how it should be. Exactly.


	4. Randy's Seamless Reunion

**The Forest for the Trees**

I gotta be honest - when Maria first suggested this whole 'old gang' get-together idea, I thought it was going to be weird. I mean, come on, right? My best friend and his warring wife, my ex-lifelong love and my new girlfriend? How could that not be weird? How could it possibly turn out well, right?

Except that there hasn't been a single moment of discomfort since we entered the restaurant. John was smart enough to suggest something casual, so there was no formal pretense going into it, and it really has been a pretty good reunion.

I mean, John and Maria haven't fought at all, though she has been keeping a pretty strict eye on the number of beers that the waitress has dropped off at the table. And Jamie hasn't really said much, but that's not unusual. She's normally the quietest one in the group, but she's smiling and laughing. Her shoulders are relaxed, too, which is a good sign. Ya see, when Jamie's tense, her shoulders creep up toward her ears, but not tonight. Tonight, she's totally chill at my side.

And then there's Tatum. The ever-delightful, glowing and smiling and laughing Tatum. I know I saw her briefly back in St. Louis - you remember that night when I was with Jamie back home, right? So I saw Tatum back then, but I honestly don't remember her looking quite like this. She wears LA sunshine and do-gooding really, really well. I think she could possibly light this entire restaurant up with her smile alone. And it's good to see her so healthy. Really, really good.

The only downside to the evening has been the fact that it took about twenty minutes for a waitress to take our orders, and another thirty for our food to come. Of course, we filled the time easily with conversation and reminiscing, catching up and whatnot, but it was still kind of annoying. And it gave John time to down more beer than usual on an empty stomach. Not that any of the rest of us noticed, but Maria is obviously keeping score.

And by the time I drop my fork onto my empty plate, the peaceful, easy vibe of the evening is about to get shot to shit.

When Tatum excuses herself to the restroom, I rest my arm around the back of Jamie's chair and stretch my legs under the table. Maria turns her large eyes to her husband and rests her hand on his bicep as he drains the last of his fourth beer. "You okay?" she asks him in that overly-concerned voice that makes even Jamie shift in her seat.

"Yes," John demands, his arm flinching against her touch. "Jesus, woman," he laughs a little too loudly, drawing an angry pout from his wife.

Tatum was always gifted with a sense of timing when it comes to Maria and John. And she slides back into her seat across the table just as her best friend is about to open her mouth and tell John exactly how amusing this situation is. "So, Jamie," Tatum starts, tucking her hair behind her ear and shooting one of those thousand-watt smiles at my girlfriend. "You're working in PR now?"

Jamie takes a short sip of her water and then returns the glass to the table before answering. "Yeah," she nods shyly, her blond hair creating a curtain around her cherubic face as it cascades over her shoulders. "I'm a talent liaison for the company," she explains. "I basically help these guys get everywhere they're supposed to be."

"Fuck me," Tatum exclaims, shaking her head. Her dark eyes are wide with genuine pity. "That's a horrible fucking job," she laughs, and Jamie smiles along with her.

"What?" I ask, feeling like I've missed some joke somewhere. "Why?"

Tatum just licks steak sauce from the side of her fork. "Because you," she points the utensil in my direction, "can't tell time. This one," she shrugs her shoulder toward John, "doesn't give a shit about time in general. And this one," her gaze falls on Maria, "doesn't really understand time. Kind of a foreign concept."

Both John and Maria seem to take offense to the observations, but I can't say that Tatum is wrong. I'm horrible about getting anywhere on time. And Jamie will be the first to tell you that I have given her a headache and a half on more than one occasion by being late for flights and appearances.

But Jamie doesn't bust out a story or say much of anything. "They do fine," she responds. If I was a more suspicious man, I would say that she almost sounds cold, but Jamie's fine with this. She's told me time and time again that she's fine with me seeing Tatum again, and that she's not worried about a thing. So when she checks a message on her blackberry and then cringes and reaches for her purse, I don't think anything strange about it. When she drops a kiss on my cheek and whispers, "Duty calls," it kind of surprises me.

"Seriously?"

She captures her bottom lip between her teeth and squints apologetically. "Yeah. Sorry," she smiles as she stands and gathers her belongings. I start to stand with her - being as I drove - but she just shakes her head. "No, you should stay. Catch a ride back with John," she instructs, dropping a soft, steak-sauce flavored kiss on my lips. "Have fun," she adds when I place the keys in her palm. "It was nice to see you again, Tatum," she tacks on before spinning on her heel and exiting the restaurant.

Tatum's eyes follow Jamie out of the room and then find me, twinkling happily. "She's really great," she says, and I believe that she means it. There's nothing suspicious or disingenuous to be found in those wide, brown orbs. "A little too together for you, but," she leaves the sentence dangling, but her grin tells me that she still enjoys giving me a hard time more than anything.

I just hold my hands up and feign offense. "Come on, now," I chuckle.

Reaching across the table, she rests her hand over mine. "You seem happy, Kid," she finally says, breaking the trance that our eyes have created in an instant.

"Help me get another round," Maria demands, her hand smacking John's thigh loudly.

But he just rolls his shoulders and looks at her like she's grown another head or something. "The waitress brings 'em to the table," he explains to her as though she's as dumb as she plays on television. "That's her job, Sweetie."

But Maria is not nearly as tranquil as the rest of us as at the table as she pushes her chair back and narrows her eyes at her husband. "John. Now." She holds out a hand and he has no choice but to follow like a petulant child. I think he even stomps his feet a little as he trails his wife to the bar.

When we're alone, Tatum leans back in her chair. "Wow," she observes expertly. "Marriage has not made them any more subtle."

She is not wrong. At all. If Maria had blatantly ordered John to leave us alone and see if there were any sparks left between us, it would have been a little more smooth. But they are who they are, and they are our best friends.

Things were so easy before. I mean, nothing had been forced or uncomfortable. I didn't feel like anyone wished they weren't at the table. Now things are weird. Don't get me wrong - it's not bad. It's just weird, ya know? I mean, sitting here alone with Tatum. Tatum. The girl who is supposed to be my definite past. The girl whom I am supposed to be completely over. And I think that I am, but it is damn good to see her again. She looks . . . well, she looks as perfect as she ever did.

"Gotta say, Orton," she starts after a long, awkward silence, "I didn't think Jamie would stick." I just raise an eyebrow and she shakes her head, laughing again. "I didn't mean it that way," she assures me.

I know that she didn't. I know that the last time I saw her, both Jamie and I were in a really fucked up place. Last time she saw us, Jamie was hiding from her abusive boyfriend, and I was trying to be her knight in shining armor. But this isn't the last time Tatum saw us. Jamie and I are both good now. We're healthy. And we're good together.

Though I say nothing, she nods as though she knows exactly what I'm thinking. And maybe she does. I mean, it wouldn't be unheard of for Tatum to understand what I'm thinking before the words come out of my mouth. In fact, back in the day, it would have been par for the course. I just have to remind myself that we're not back in the day anymore. We're in the here and now. Where she is not my girlfriend. I am not her boyfriend. We are not together. I just have to remember that.

Without warning, she bends toward the floor and surfaces with her purse. "Hey, do you wanna get outta here?" Casting a glance toward the bar, where John and Maria are leaning there, beers in hand, watching us, she turns back to me and winks. "Away from the watchdogs for awhile?"

Dammit if this is the wrong choice, but there is nothing I want more right now.


	5. Jamie's Seeds of Doubt

**The Forest for the Trees**

I like being a PR liaison. I really didn't think I would in the beginning, but I do. Most of the time.

I'll admit that there are times when it's not a dream come true. There are times when some idiot thinks it's okay to skip a flight for a quickie with a ring rat. There are times when some moron thinks it's so incredibly intelligent to take an extra pain killer or two and then act like a bombed-out junkie on a plane or in a hotel lobby. There are times when someone, in a childish fit of stupidity, thinks they're whiny-ass is above the rules of professionalism. In those times, I gotta admit, I don't really love it.

These are the moments when it sucks to be dedicated to my job. It sucks to actually care if the front office thinks I'm good at what I do. Like when I'm in the middle of a really important dinner, and I get called away to get some damn, idiotic moron out of a bar fight before it could possibly make the Internet community's radar. These stupid dummies have no concept of the world outside their own heads. They have no idea that the person who has to come to their rescue might actually have a flippin' life of their own.

And ya know what the worst fuckin' part of this whole thing is? I didn't even really wanna be at that dinner at the moment my phone rang. I know everyone else was havin' a grand old time, but for me? For the fifth wheel? It was weird. Especially with Tatum sitting right across the table in all of her stunning glory. I didn't wanna be there, but I sure as hell didn't wanna leave before everyone else.

Of course, Randy's hands never really left me at dinner. Either his arm was around me, or his hand was on my thigh under the table, the whole time. He was there with me. But the suspicious, not-so-subtly insecure side of me is not so sure that gesture was genuine. I mean, yeah, he was easy-going and totally relaxed. Maybe too relaxed, though. And is it a total stretch to believe maybe his hand kept finding my thigh to assure me that his ex wasn't affecting him? So that maybe he could throw me off as to just how affected he really was?

And then boneheads Miz and Morrison had to open their stupid mouths in a stupid bar and start a stupid fight. And I had to pretend that I was fine leaving the fantastic four to catch up on years of repressed memories and emotions. And now, I'm going to lose the man I love to his perfectly imperfect ex, and it's all those idiot, third rate, champion wannabes' faults.

"Ugh," I exclaim, falling onto the bed of our hotel room at two in the morning, my hands covering my face. When Randy's warm body rolls toward me, I can't imagine anything better than laying down, curling into him, and forgetting this whole night ever happened. "I swear, if I have to listen to anymore blameless bitches, I'm gonna knock somebody out," I pout, slipping my legs under the covers.

An arm, and then one leg emerges from beneath the mountain of blankets. "I love ya, James," the deep voice slurs sleepily. "But I think my wife might object."

I screech and jump from the bed as John turns his face toward me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Well, I try to jump up, but I get tangled in the covers, effectively falling to the floor and leaving John uncovered on the bed. Thankfully, he's still wearing his signature denim shorts, but I'm not sure where his shirt is. And judging from the foggy look in his eyes, he probably doesn't know, either.

Shovelling a handful of disheveled hair from my face, I just take a deep breath and try to collect myself. "What the hell are you doing in my bed, John?" I ask, casting a glance around to realize that it's two in the morning and my boyfriend is not here. Of course, I stay level headed and don't worry at all about where he might be right now.

"Hidin' out," he grumbles, struggling to sit as he wipes his massive hand over his face.

"Where's Randy?" I fire, almost before he finishes his answer. Okay, so maybe I'm a little bit worried.

John blinks and looks around the room. Normally, I would assume that he's thinking up some lie to cover for his friend, but he's drunk. And he's not exactly thinking all that clearly. So I'm choosing to assume he's just trying to remember who Randy is at the moment. "He left the restaurant. With Tatum." He squints toward the ceiling and then looks back at me. "Before dessert."

I left the restaurant at 9:30. We were done with dinner. Which means that Randy was probably out of there, with his ex, by 9:45. Which means that he's been out there with her for more than four hours. Doing God knows what. And I should trust him, I know, but come on now. You know Randy about as well as I do, right? And you've seen his history with Tatum. So, tell me, would you trust this whole scenario?

Of course, I wouldn't make a great PR representative if I couldn't mask my emotions and stay cool under pressure. Standing from the floor, I toss the covers back to John and head toward the mini-bar. Nothing a little, overpriced bottle of tequila can't fix. "Should I be worried about that?" I ask him as nonchalantly as I possibly can.

He just rolls off his side of the bed and pulls a tee shirt over his head. "About Randal and fair Tatum?" he asks, extending his hand as he walks toward me. "Nah," he shakes his head and accepts the bottle. Maria's gonna love me for this one. "They're," he makes a sweeping motion with his hand to finish his sentence, and I assume he means 'over.' But as he swigs from the bottle, I can't be sure. "You should not be worried about Randy and Tatum," he adds as he leans against the dresser and stares at his socks. Well, at one sock. I don't know where the other one is.

And I don't really care. "Okay," I take a deep breath and steal the bottle back. One, because I think I'm going to need it in order to ask my next question. And two, because I'm pretty sure he doesn't need it anymore. "I'll bite," I add when he wiggles his eyebrows in my direction. Taking one more shot of courage, I wipe a dribble from my lip and study him carefully. "What should I be worried about, John?"

He just purses his lips and shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. "Same thing we all worry about, James," he says cryptically.

Um, okay? I know I worry about losing Randy to Tatum. I worry about screwing up at my job. I worry about cross-country trips with irrationally-spaced rest stops and gas stations. But I don't know what we all worry about. So I guess. "Death?" He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Sex with strangers?" This time, he smiles but just shakes his head again. "Public speaking?" I try one more time.

But John's done with the guessing game. Meeting my eye, he raises an eyebrow and speaks in a deep, announcer-like voice. "Worse. Maria."

"Maria? We all worry about your wife?"

John pushes off of the dresser and tucks his hands into his pockets. John's one of those guys who can visibly sober before your eyes. Sometimes it makes me wonder if he really has the problem his wife thinks he does, or if he just fakes it to piss her off. Even for someone who has seen alcoholism up close and personal, it's hard for me to tell with him. One minute, he's in a complete fog. The next, he's clear-eyed and prophetic. It's weird. And unsettling.

"For different reasons," he nods his chin once again as he withdraws his wallet from his back pocket. "You, though," he nods knowingly as if I should know what he's about to say, "should worry because she seems to think that getting Orton and Tatum back together is gonna fix all our problems." Pulling his room key from his wallet, he shrugs slightly. "And maybe achieve world peace. I'm not sure about that, though."

Of course Maria thinks that Randy and Tatum can fix whatever the hell is going on in her marriage. "Old friends. Old times," I mutter before taking another drink. Because, when Randy and Tatum were together? John and Maria were happy. They were solid. They were the normal ones. It makes sense that she would think reuniting the old lovers would set the world right again. I mean, not in the way that it actually makes any sense at all. But in the way that it makes Maria, the world is a fairy tale, sense.

John just shrugs, drops a kiss on my cheek, and lets himself out of the room. And I just sink to the bed and drain the rest of the tequila. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, the only people who can fix John and Maria's problems are John and Maria, right? Even she has to know that, deep down, doesn't she? I mean, even though she succeeded in getting Randy and Tatum in the same place at the same time, that doesn't mean that she is going to be able to make sparks fly once again. Does it?

Where the hell is Randy, anyway?


	6. Tatum's Indiscretion

**The Forest for the Trees**

You would think, for someone who loves the water so much, that LA would be the perfect place to live, wouldn't you? I can't lie. It is pretty fantastic. But even with the doctor, it's not the same as sitting river or lakeside with Randy, smoking and speaking in low tones. I forgot how deep his voice is. And I forgot the way that it sometimes carries away on the wind before I can catch everything that he's said. I'm glad he found this place, this little private lake. And I'm glad that the gate was unlocked. It's kind of nice to remember this. Even if it's just for one night.

"Do you remember that time we went bowling in Canada with Adam and Amy?" I ask after we've both lit what feels like our hundredth cigarettes of the night.

Randy just grunts from his place at my side, his denim-covered legs stretched out before him. "That shit wasn't bowling," he insists as he takes another drag and exhales a long line of smoke into the black night.

I laugh at his statement and shake my head before laying back to pillow my head in the sand. It's cool, but it feels good against my neck. "You are still so damn American," I chuckle. "Jesus."

"Yeah, well," Randy shakes his head and puffs again, pouting. "I don't care where you're from. Five pins and a shot put ain't fuckin' bowling."

Back when we were together, Randy and I hung out with John and Maria a lot. But John, as champion, was a busy guy, and sometimes they just weren't available. So we would hang with Adam and Amy on occasion. And I gotta tell ya, though I love Maria as my best friend in the whole world, sometimes it was more fun with the others. I don't know if Adam's just a more creative guy, or if it's because he's Canadian, or what, but he came up with the strangest things for us to do. And it didn't always make sense, but it was always fun.

Bowling was the best. Up in Canada, they have five-pin bowling. I'm sure there are some places that have regular bowling, but the place we went was five-pin. Five little pins and a tiny little ball. You'd think it'd be easy, but not so much. Takes skill. A skill that Randy really didn't possess. Mocking him about it whenever we all got together used to be one of my favorite past times. Mostly because he always gets that little boy, 'don't make fun of me' face. It's adorable.

Lifting my head to take another drag, I turn my face toward him. "You're just sour 'cause you got schooled by everyone that night," I accuse.

"You have no idea how hard it is to knock those stupid things down," he begins to defend, but then backs down when I open my mouth to remind him I was there. "I'm just sayin'," he deflates.

Hoisting myself back to a seated position, mostly because I can only see his back from my current position, I think about the young man sitting next to me. "You never change, Randy," I deduce. "You just can't accept defeat. You never could."

He huffs again and lifts his cigarette to his lips once more. When his crystal blue eyes drift out to the ocean, I have to avert my eyes. If I'm not careful, I'll start thinking about my Randy again. I can't do that. "You're wrong," he mutters. At least, I think that's what he says. It's one of those 'carried away' phrases.

I know that he's right. He has changed. A lot. "In some ways," I concede. Lifting my eyes just as he turns his head, our eyes meet. "Other ways, you're exactly the same."

Okay, this is the proverbial line. And we can't cross it. We can't, no matter how beautiful those twinkling blue eyes look in the moonlight, or how fast my heart starts beating when those eyes dart to my lips and then back. "Is that a bad thing?" he asks, just a twinge of that arrogant grin fighting to tweak the corner of his lip.

"It's really not," I murmur before I can stop myself. Can't cross the line. We can't cross this fucking line.

And yet, his lips are on mine before I can dodge them. Or before I care to. I'm not sure. I just know that Randy is kissing me, and it feels like my chest is about to explode. His lips are as full and soft as ever. Tasting the bite of smoke on his tongue reminds me of life, and love, and fully experiencing everything that I ever dreamt. It's like coming home again.

And after only a few seconds, he pulls back. "That was a really bad move," he whispers, turning away and running the hand that just gripped my neck a second ago over his face.

"Worst," I agree with a slow nod, unable to stop my tongue from trailing over my bottom lip. "Ever," I add, wiping my mouth. I don't know if I think I can erase the feeling, but I suddenly feel compelled to try.

We both drop our cigarettes into the sand at our sides and reach for another, fidgeting awkwardly as we fumble for lighters and look anywhere but at each other. It was a horrible idea. Horrible act. We're both in healthy relationships. That absolutely should not have happened.

"So we agree that was never supposed to happen?"

Is he reading my mind? "Oh, yeah," I agree emphatically. Maybe a little too emphatically, actually. "I mean, it's understandable, ya know." I understand that I'm about to launch into 'counselor' mode, but let's be real, okay? This situation is potentially volatile, and it needs to be diffused. "I mean, this is the first time in years that we're together without drugs or drama. It's totally understandable that we would get caught up in the moment," I explain as he drops his chin to his chest and nods.

Raising his head, Randy takes another drag from his cigarette and then looks over at me. "So it was a mistake and it's never . . ."

"Never gonna happen again," I finish with him, and we both laugh. It's like the lilting sound pops the bubble of tension and I fall into an easy place once more. Comfortable. "Dude," I sigh, sucking at my cigarette a little to vigorously as a lump begins to form in my throat.

Randy checks his watch and I think maybe his eyes are going to pop out of his head. "Damn, I need to get back to Jamie," he says, jumping from the sand and running his hands over the back of his pants.

Right. His girlfriend. The new woman in his life. Who is not me. "Yeah," I nod, because I know that he has to get back to his life without me. He has to. And I have to carry on with my life without him. "I have an early seminar in the morning, so I should," I trail off as he offers a hand to help me to my feet.

Neither of us speaks on the incredibly long drive back to his hotel. That whole scene would have been a perfect act break in a film, except that Jamie took Randy's truck from the restaurant and now I have to take him back to his hotel. And even though I know that neither of us is going to breathe a word about our indiscretion on the beach, I can't help wondering if he'll think about it while he's laying next to her tonight.

When I bring the car to a stop in front of the hotel, he leans over the console and lifts his hand to my face. For a minute, I think he might kiss me again, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and gives me that genuine, heart melting smile. "It was good to see you again, Tate," he whispers just before he lets himself out of the car.

Dammit. I wish that I could tell you that Randy and I are going to be great friends. That we're going to have the kind of relationship that is born out of two people who just realize that, while they're not meant to be together, they are meant to be a part of each other's lives forever. I wish that I could tell you that because I wish it was the truth.

But the electricity that his simple touch against my cheek sends through my entire body. Randy and I were never friends, and we never will be. Which is exactly why I have to stay the hell away from him. No matter what.


	7. Randy's New Start

**The Forest for the Trees**

Ya know, I may come across as a dumb ass sometimes, but I'm not completely inept. I know life isn't perfect - I've been tellin' ya that from the beginning of this little tale, remember? And I know that fairy tales are for little girls and crazy people. But above everything else I know, I know this: I am tired, and in desperate need of some time off. I've been a little foggy in the brain since that stupid thing that never should have happened with you-know-who. And I know that this time away from everything else is exactly what Jamie and I need to reconnect and keep filling in the gaps of our future. The past is just that. Ancient history.

"I can't believe you actually got me three whole days off," Jamie sighs as I shut the front door of my dark, musty home. I hate coming home from a long road trip to find that my mom hasn't had a chance to come over and air things out. Now, don't get me wrong, I get that she's busy and has a life of her own. I just hate how depressing that closed up smell can be.

Which is why I love the fact that Jamie immediately crosses through the entry and begins ripping curtains back, flooding the living room and kitchen with streams of fading late. She props the back door open and reaches over the sink to let some of the evening air into the kitchen. I love the fact that she belongs here. That it feels like she really does belong in my life.

Tatum lived here for three years, ya know? She got her mail here, and all of her shit was here. She was here when I wasn't, doing whatever she was doing without me. She was a resident. And yet, somehow, she always felt like a house guest when I was home. She would ask if it was okay that she took a swim, or left my side for thirty seconds. She expected me to take care of meals and tell her when it was okay to change the channel on the television. I loved that girl with my life, but she just never really felt like she . . . like she fit here, ya know?

I never noticed that until Jamie started hangin' out here, though. I mean, from those first couple of weeks that she stayed with me back in the day, when she was still with that ass monkey, Josh, she just seemed to belong here. And, technically, she doesn't even live here. I mean, she has her own place in Connecticut. She only stays here if I'm here, but she's already managed to leave her mark. In six months, she's painted rooms, rearranged furniture, and learned where everything is in my kitchen. She's managed to leave flowers in every room, without making them look all girlie, and she knows more about running my washing machine and my TiVo than I do. Jamie just fits.

I'm not sure she realizes that I'm watching her until she spins in the middle of the kitchen floor and takes a deep, cleansing breath. Now that she's sure nothing is out of place, nobody's been here without our knowledge, and everything's going to be okay, she visibly relaxes. Moving to the refrigerator, she opens the door and studies the contents. "You want anything?" she asks over her shoulder.

Slipping my arms around her waist, I bend to rest my chin on her shoulder and press my chest to her back. I can feel her breath hitch, and it's like heaven. Truly. Even the way the refrigerator casts a glow over her makes her seem angelic. "Yes," I whisper, capturing her earlobe between my teeth.

She giggles, one of the most beautiful sounds she makes. It's like this innocent, musical sound that I can't get enough of. Turning in my arms, she kicks the fridge door shut and winds her arms around my neck, her eyes twinkling. "Ooh, let me guess," she says playfully. "You wanna start a load of laundry while I cook dinner?"

The laughter that follows lights her features like a light bulb and I can't help but smile with her, releasing her hips to tuck her hair behind her ears. "No," I correct her, resting my index finger on her lips when she pouts. "All I want right now is my bed, and a warm body beside me," I inform her, watching her eyes drift close and then open again.

"Any warm body in particular?" Oh, let me tell ya, kids: There is nothing in this world sexier than coy, flirtatious Jamie. She doesn't really seem to have the time to come out that often when we're working, but when we're home? It's a wonder I get any sleep at all.

I let my eyes drift over her body, covered only in a short, denim skirt and one of my white tee shirts. "Only one on my mind," I smirk, my gaze never quite making it back to her face.

Without waiting for her response, I sweep her off of her feet and fling her over my shoulder. I have been fantasizing for weeks about sleep in my own bed. But right now sleep, and dinner, and laundry, and every other damn thing can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I just want Jamie.

---

I really don't know how I got the reputation for being a ladies' man. I mean, I know that was the ploy with Evolution or whatever, but anyone who knows me for real? Knows that I don't get that whole 'player' lifestyle. I mean, I know it seems to be some kind of status thing with the other fellas in the locker room, but for me? Rackin' up a body count is nowhere nearly as fulfilling as laying in a dimly lit room with a woman who just proved, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that she knows everything it takes to make you tick. No one will ever convince me that sex with a random is in the same universe as really great sex with a girl you really, really know.

"This is it, right here," I sigh as I pull Jamie's head onto my chest and stamp my cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table. She burrows into my side and runs her fingertips over my stomach. Seriously? How could stumbling around in the dark for your pants, running away from whatever girl you've just bedded be better than this?

"Randy?" her soft voice whispers into my skin. I mumble to let her know that I heard her, mostly because every muscle in my body feels too numb for anything else. "Can I ask you something?"

I manage to raise my hand enough to stroke her soft, sweat-moistened locks. "Of course, Sweetheart." She could ask me anything right now. I really don't think I'd be able to lie if I wanted to.

When she clears her throat, she seems to shrink just a little bit. I know that's a weird way to explain it, but with Jamie, there's this physical reaction that she has to anxiety. Like when she's nervous about something, it affects her whole body and, even if I'm not looking at her face, I can tell. "The other night," she starts, and her voice cracks, like it's not used to being used to form words. At the moment, I can promise you that it's not. Mumbling and screeching and moaning, yes. Sentences, not so much. "With Tatum? How did it feel?"

Shit. Now, don't get me wrong. Things with Tatum are over. That kiss was a mistake, and we both know that. Which is why I chose not to tell Jamie about it. Because it meant nothing. And I know that Tatum wouldn't say anything, either. So I'm not exactly sure what Jamie's getting at right now, but I know the very question makes my heart beat a little faster. And her ear is pressed against my chest, so I know she hears it. Probably feels it against her cheek. Dammit.

"I just want you to be honest with me," she whispers, pulling away from my arms to rest on her elbow at my side.

Trailing my fingers over her back, I turn my head and let myself take in the sight of her cherubic face, framed by those golden curls. She's the most beautiful thing I can ever remember seeing. "James, it's over," I assure her with a nod. "If I felt anything the other night, that was it." Raising my head as far as I can, I manage to press a kiss to her chin. "I wanna be with you." And I mean it when I say it. I do wanna be with Jamie. Only Jamie.

The way she tilts her head back almost makes me think that she's trying to get away from me. "Are you sure?" she asks, her eyes narrowing. Like maybe she knows more than she's letting on. But she can't. That's impossible. Isn't it? "Cause the other night, when I got home, John was hiding out in our room," she drops the bombshell.

Fucking Cena. Of course he was in our room. Why wouldn't he be? Of course he would completely sabotage the best thing that has ever happened to me. "Was he drunk?" I bet his drunk ass couldn't resist the urge to fuck my life up as much as he's fucked his own up lately.

"He was hiding from Maria," Jamie explains, pulling away from my touch completely as she sits up in the bed and crosses her legs. She seems so broken. So hurt. "He said that she thinks getting you and Tatum back together will fix all of their problems. Hers and John's," she adds, her eyes begging me to tell her that it's not true. That Maria wouldn't be so conniving. And that, even if she were, that it would never work.

And she's right. It wouldn't. I mean, what happened between me and Tatum was an accidental mistake. None of Maria's scheming could ever make it happen again. Now all I have to do is make sure that Jamie knows that. Struggling to sit, I lean against the headboard and reach for another cigarette. I've been thinking that I would eventually tell Jamie about the kiss, when I was sure that she would believe it was ridiculous and laugh about it with me. Clearly, that's not going to happen now.

I just inhale deeply and exhale long. "Don't really matter what Maria, or anybody else, tries, James. I'm with you," I promise her, leaning over to drop a kiss on her still-pouty lips. "And that's where I plan on stayin'."

For a minute, I think she's going to argue with me. Instead, she just takes the cigarette from my hand and puffs on it herself. Blowing a thick, white plume of smoke into the air, she tilts her head to consider me one more time. "You're sure about this? Because if you want out, now's the time," she hands the cigarette back and flinches when my hand brushes hers, like I might actually take an out.

"Don't be ridiculous," I chuckle, reaching for her leg. Her skin is so smooth beneath my touch. "You known me long enough to know I ain't doin' shit I don't wanna do, right?"

She smiles hesitantly, and I know I've got her. Because she wants to be with me as much as I wanna be with her. It's not love yet, but it could be. And I'm not willing to miss out on the chance at finding out just because other people wanna plant doubts in her pretty little head. Or mine. And if Maria doesn't keep her mouth shut, I'ma shut it for her. And I don't fucking care who her husband is.


	8. Tatum's Advice

**The Forest For the Trees**

"Alright, so you got three phone calls last night from a guy who says he's your boyfriend," I tell Sylvia from the doorway of her room. "Which is weird, 'cause you keep telling me that you don't have a boyfriend."

She groans and sits on her bed, her fingers gripping two giant handfuls of her blond hair. I hate the entitlement that comes with celebrity addicts, but the doctor seems convinced that I'm the only tech in this place who can get through her bleached skull to the issues beneath her 'whoa is me' demeanor. On any other day, I would kick and scream and throw a fit. But ever since that damn . . . thing that happened in Texas, I feel the need to tackle someone else's huge problems just to get away from mine.

Sylvia groans again and reaches for the bottle of water on her bedside table. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was on something. But I know that squinty look. Something's on her mind, and it's making her miserable. And she wishes she was on something, but she can't be, so she shoots death daggers at anyone who bothers to look her way. I have been there. Many times, actually.

"So who's the guy?" I ask, allowing the door to shut behind me as I perch myself on the end of her bed.

She just rolls her eyes and shrugs. "How the hell should I know?" she challenges. "Told you. Don't do boyfriends."

Easing into a simple conversation isn't going to happen. Not when she's in this mindset. So I go for the direct approach. It'll probably piss her off, but sometimes that's the easiest way to get us to open up about something we addicts don't really want to talk about. "Why?" I question, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Why what?" she asks, reaching for a cigarette.

I shrug, just like she did a minute ago, if for no other reason than to show her that she doesn't rattle me. Everyone here thinks they're so tough - they don't seem to understand that every one of us working around this place have been where they are. They're not clever. Not new to the game. Some of us mastered it before they even started playing. "Why don't you do boyfriends?" She rolls her eyes and rests her head against the wall. "And why are you still trying to bull shit me? Haven't you learned anything in our precious time together?"

She smirks at that, a glimmer of the girl I thought I was getting to know shining through. "I'm an addict, Tate," she reminds me, taking another puff. "Habits? They die real hard."

"That why you don't do boyfriends?" I push on as though she isn't trying to bait me. "Because of your habit?"

Her eyes flit to the door, like she's trying to make sure that nobody is listening in. "Yeah, I guess," she finally gives in, looking toward the window. I'm not sure she's even aware that she does it, but every time she's about to say something potentially damaging to this rock-hard facade she's created for herself, her eyes dart around the room. Like the paparazzi maybe snuck in through the window when she wasn't paying attention. "Easier to fuck randoms, ya know? I know I'm not gonna remember most of 'em anyway.

"I mean, if you're with a guy you care about? And if he cares about you?" She shakes her head and smiles a little bit. "You don't wanna fuck that up 'cause you can't get your shit together, ya know? 'Cause you can't fuckin' remember who you are, let alone who you're with." A cackle rips from her throat, surprising me just a bit. "Even I'm not too damaged to know that."

I nod my head and mumble, "I know," before I even realize it's popped out of my mouth. The doctor says that sometimes the best advice you can give someone in rehab is to open your own personal experiences to their scrutiny. Supposedly, it not only strengthens my own sobriety, but shows them that I'm just like them, at the core. Gives them hope that maybe they can be where I am someday. I've never really had a problem with that concept. Except when it comes to Randy. I don't talk about Randy. Ever.

"You do?" Now it's Sylvia's turn to sound surprised. But when she asks, "What happened?" it's me who's thrown off guard by her tone once again. Wow, I'm really off my game today, huh? Usually, nothing shocks me, but it seems like, in the span of a few seconds, I've been completely thrown.

Glancing up, I see that Sylvia is now leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hungry for whatever story I may have. Whatever morsel of trauma I may have lived through that will show her some way through her own personal hell. Don't I owe it to her? I mean, isn't that why I'm here in the first place? To help other addicts find their way out? Like Randy helped me?

"Um," I clear my throat and reach for her cigarette, taking a puff and handing it back. It's against the rules, for me to smoke while I'm working, but I know that Sylvia's not going to say anything. And I'm pretty sure I won't get through this without some kind of synthetic courage. "I was actually in love with the greatest guy on the face of the planet. For three years," I begin to explain, the story sounding almost foreign. It's been awhile since I've told anyone, even my own sponsor, about Randy. "He tried everything to save my from myself, but I," I stop and swallow the lump of emotion in my throat, my eyes fixed on the strap of my shoe, "I couldn't see it."

Sylvia points her cigarette in my direction. "See, that's what I'm sayin'. I mean, people get hurt when you form attachments."

I can't argue with that. They do. People do get hurt. "But you're wrong, Sylvia," I correct her, my eyes meeting hers. "It's not easier." She seems confused, so I scoot further onto the mattress and turn my body fully toward her. "There's nothing easy about recovery. Nothing easy about clawing your way back to the surface of your own life." And there is certainly nothing easy about pushing people away. Of course, she doesn't need to know how much I hate that part of my past. Not now.

Of course, this has to be the moment when she chooses to have an intelligent, clear-headed, sober thought. Of course it is. "You still love him?" She poses it as a question, but I'm not sure she really means it like one.

Honesty first. It's the only way to heal. Only way to stay sober. Complete honesty with others, and especially with yourself. Lying helps no one. With a nod, I close my eyes and remember the sparkle in his blue eyes the other night. "He stood by me when I needed someone more than anything, and I will love him forever for that," I confess for the first time out loud. Or at all really.

"But are you still in love with him?" Sylvia pushes me.

How in the blue hell did this become about me? Isn't this her counseling session? "No, I'm not," shaking my head to clear him like an Etch-A-Sketch from my brain. She smiles like the Cheshire Cat and opens her mouth to call my bluff, but I just stand and hold up a finger. "And this is why I don't watch your movies," I inform her defiantly. "Because they infect your brain with fairy tale fantasies. Besides, we are not talking about me. We're talking about you," I remind her, standing from the bed and walking toward the window, if for nothing more than a change of scenery.

Sylvia relaxes back against her headboard and when I turn, she's still watching me. "I don't know," she says doubtfully. "If I thought about a guy and got that look in my eyes? I think it'd be a whole lot easier to stay clean."

Oh, if she only knew. If it were that easier, Randy and I would still be together, living one of those fairy tale endings that I claimed to hate just a second ago. We would still be together, if she were right. "Not always," I assure her as I lower myself into a chair to continue the rest of our session.

And forty irritating minutes later, I'm desperate for an escape. Letting myself out of Sylvia's room, I mentally consider my schedule for the rest of the day. Talking about Randy seemed to help her, but it's got me itching for an old fix. I have to talk to the doctor. Maybe grab a quickie on his desk. That should help me get through.

"Tate."

Spinning at the sound of my name, I know my face registers the shock of seeing the man in my doorway. "John!" I squeal, skipping across the distance between us to throw my arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"

Releasing me, he raises an eyebrow and considers me critically. "You're not wearing scrubs," he states matter-of-factly.

I just push a piece of hair behind my ear. "I'm not a doctor," I remind him, though I'm pretty sure that I told him that about a thousand times the other night. "What are you doing here?" I question again.

He glances around the room, just like Sylvia did an hour ago and then takes a deep breath. "I need to know if you think I have a drinking problem," he sighs.

What? I mean, I knew that Maria was worried about him, and I saw the way he was downing those beers the other night. Even Randy mentioned something about the tension that always seemed to arise when John started drinking. But surely he wouldn't fly across the country just to ask me that, would he? "Well, John," I start, shaking my head at the surreal nature of the entire conversation, "I can schedule an eval for you with the doctor, if you want. I'm not really qualified for that myself."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smiles at one of the other techs passing behind me. "Can't you just, like, give me test or somethin'?"

"Sure," I agree, accepting the chart that one of the nurses offers me. Glancing over it distractedly, I let my eyes drift back to John and then over the page again. "Wanna know if you're pregnant? I can get ya a stick to pee on or somethin'," I say, returning my full attention to him. "Otherwise, it's not so cut and dry." He doesn't seem to find that funny, so I smile and hug the folder in my hands to my chest. "Of course, if you start peeing on sticks, that might be an indicator that you have a problem."

Though he returns the grin, it doesn't quite reach his eyes, which is weird. Even when Randy and I were having our problems, I don't remember a time when John wasn't one hundred percent positive. About everything. He's an upbeat guy. "I ain't peed on nothin'," he assures me dryly. "I just," dropping his shoulders, he looks at the ground and then around the common room, where a few patients read magazines and chat, "I just wanna know what you think."

By the way, this is one of the joys of being a recovering addict. Actually, this is one of the joys of people _knowing_ that you're a recovering addict. Everyone thinks you're the expert on addiction of every kind. I know the basics. I'm not the text book, folks. "My professional opinion?" I question, leaning my hip against the couch at my side.

"No," John shakes his head, his blue eyes piercing straight through me. They're not as deep as Randy's, but the color still reminds me of my ex. "I want my friend's opinion."

So what do I tell him? Randy says he thinks John's okay. Maria says he's practically the company drunk. I've seen him once in the last three years. "I can really only go off what I've heard, and what I saw last week," I remind him. "But I think you might be standing on the edge of a problem."

Ya know, with Sylvia it's easy. I can tell her that she's screwed up. I can tell her how to fix it. We can argue, and I can tell her the stuff that she doesn't want to hear. She's not my friend. And if she walks outta this place and into another party, it's not my responsibility. But with John? If I fuck him up, I have to live with that forever. And hear about it, from Maria, for the rest of my life.

"What does that mean?" he presses.

Shit. Ya know, most days I don't regret the path that my life has taken. I mean, it's made me the person that I am today, and those experiences and mistakes and bad choices have allowed me a golden opportunity to help other people who are in the same place I was just a few years ago. But on days like this, with John staring at me like I hold the secrets to the universe, I wish I'd never taken a hit from a joint when I was fourteen. I wish I'd never snuck that beer from my dad's fridge in the garage when I was twelve. I wish that I had never snorted my first line or shot my first hit of heroine. I wish that I wasn't the addict in the group.

Reaching out, I rest a hand against his warm arm. "John, you have to make this call for yourself. Everybody can tell you that you have a problem, but until you tell yourself that you do, you're not gonna do anything about it." He just rolls his eyes, like he's heard that before. So I squeeze his bicep and offer him another smile. "If it means anything, I think that you've gone beyond drinking just to party. Seems to me like maybe you're doin' it to escape the problems you're havin' with Maria."

He hangs his head guiltily and I know I've hit the nail on the head. The truth is that I've always been so into my problems with Randy when I've been around John, that I never realized just how much he looks like a little boy. Maybe it's because he's vulnerable right now, but this guy isn't trying to hurt anyone. He doesn't want to worry his wife or his friends. But I'm willing to bet my sobriety that Maria's never asked why he does it - only nagged him to stop. And I'll bet this entire life I've built for myself that it only creates more pressure and perpetuates the cycle.

"John, drinking to avoid the issues, to numb the pain? You're standin' at the gate to the world of twelve steps, man. Whether you step through is up to nobody but you."


	9. Randy's OneonOne

**The Forest for the Trees**

Three days off with Jamie was exactly what I needed to get my head right back in the game and my life right back on track. In fact, we had such a great time together that I was ready to invite John and Maria out for dinner, on me, the second we got back. And then I found out that John was out of town. Maria said he had a last-second signing scheduled, but I asked Jamie about it and she seemed oblivious. Maybe because she was with me, but usually she's in the loop about all our publicity shit. Especially me and John's. So I'm not sure what's going on with him, and that kind of bothers me.

Look, I give John a lot of shit. And we're dudes, so we don't hug on each other and talk about how much we love each other all time. Truth is, you only really know things are good between us when we're really raggin' on each other. But not knowing where he is, and not having him here where I thought he was supposed to be, kind of throws me off. Not that I'll tell him that. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't, either.

When the locker room door flies open, two days after we return from vacation, I can't help bein' a little excited to see John walk through. His demeanor seems pretty normal, but he only shakes my hand and doesn't really say much as he starts to unpack his bag. Something's off about him right now, and I don't like that I don't know what it is.

The great thing about my friendship with John, though, is that I don't even have to ask the questions that are plaguing me. He knows I'm gonna ask, so he does the work for me. "Went to LA for a couple days," he answers, shrugging as though it's nothing while he pulls his shoes from his bag. "I, uh, went for an evaluation at a rehab clinic," he admits, his voice hushed just above a whisper.

"What?" I know it's probably not supportive to sound so surprised, but it's really the last thing I ever thought I would hear come out of my friend's mouth. If I know anything about John, it's that he swears he doesn't have a problem. At least, I thought I knew that.

Dropping his shoe back into the bag, he rests his hands on his hips and looks at me. Almost like he thinks I'm going to challenge him or something. "I don't know, man," he sighs, and I see that he's not defiant. He's defeated. Or hopeless. I don't know. It's weird. He just seems kinda . . . sad. "Maria keeps pushin' this whole alcohol thing, so I told her I'd have it checked out."

He goes right back to unpacking his shit, and I don't really know how I'm supposed to respond. I guess I'm just supposed to say whatever I think, but I really don't know what I think about it. "Where'd you go?" I ask, dropping to the chair in front of my locker to start taping my wrist.

For once, a smirk cracks his lips and he winks. "PRC," he says, nodding as though I should know what that means. When it's clear that I don't, he rolls his eyes like I'm hopeless. What? Like I'm a rehab expert? "Pasadena Recovery Center," he explains. I nod, but I think he can still tell that I don't know what that means. "Tatum's place."

Oh. And I was doing so good at not thinking about her. At thinking about Jamie. And my life with Jamie. My girlfriend. "You see her?" I ask, against my better judgement. Ya know what, though? That's good, right? I mean, that John saw Tatum, that's good. If anybody knows how addiction can fuck up a relationship, it should be Tatum. And that sounded really bitter. Damn. "What'd she say?"

His grin only broadens. "Said you looked good the other night, man," he says, unzipping his shorts, only to slip into another pair of the same damn shorts. He's not exactly a clothes horse, Cena's not.

Though a shot jolts through my ego, I just shake my head and meet his eye with a firm look of my own. "I meant about your drinking, dumb ass."

"She said she doesn't think I have a problem yet," he begins to explain, though the way he's squintin' at me makes it seem like maybe he doesn't believe me. "But if I don't start workin' on my shit with Maria, I'm gonna have one. Says I can't keep drinking to solve our problems, because it won't solve anything." With a shrug, he dropped into his own chair and kicked his high top tennis shoes onto the floor. "The usual, I guess."

She's right. That advice is pretty damn accurate. Not that I think Tatum would give John anything but solid advice. Still, it's a little awkward to see that she's offering help to other people. I mean, she told me about it the other night, but that was kind of theoretical, ya know? Now she's dishin' out counseling to our friends, and it's good advice. That's weird for me, and I'm not sure why. Maybe I'll get back to you on that.

"So what are you gonna do about it?"

John's quiet for a long time, busying himself with suiting up. But then he stands from his chair and rests his hands on his hips. "Every time I sit Maria down to talk about what's buggin' me, she starts talkin', and I just wanna," he stops, his fists balling and relaxing at his sides. "Ugh," he finishes the sentence. "I just can't take it anymore, ya know? I just want some space sometimes, ya know?"

And suddenly, it all becomes clear. "And she leaves you alone when you drink."

"Not at first," he chuckles and shakes his head slowly. "She bitches and nags and pisses me off. But then she backs off, and I get some fucking peace and quiet for once." He sounds angry, but I don't think that he means to. I think he's just frustrated.

I guess I can't blame him. I mean, if you think about it, it kinda makes sense. I know that John loves Maria, but dammit if they don't see each other every fucking day. When they're working, when they're not. When they're at home, when they're not. To be honest, I wasn't sure that John would date her for more than a couple of months, let alone three years. And then he asked her to marry him, and I thought they'd never make it down the aisle. They're crazy in love with each other, but is that always enough? Especially when that person never leaves you the fuck alone?

At least with me and Jamie, our jobs are different. Sure, we work for the same company, but we don't see each other all the time. Sometimes she's with me on the road. Sometimes she's back in Stamford, at the offices. Sometimes she's traveling with other talent. I get breaks. She gets breaks. We have lives outside of each other. I guess that's more important than I thought it was, huh?

Finally standing from my seat, I jump up and down a few times to get my blood flowing. I don't wanna push him, or say anything that he doesn't want to hear, but if I can't tell my best friend what he doesn't really like, who can I tell? "It's kind of a dangerous way to get some quiet, though, don't ya think?"

He just smirks. "That's what Tate's boyfriend said, too."

Tate's boyfriend? Oh, right. The doctor. Her married boyfriend. Forgot about him. "Well," I pat a hand against his shoulder and then go back to my light warm up, "I'm glad you talked to somebody about it, man. I hope that works out for ya."

"You hope it works out for me?" John mocks. "That's all you've got to say to me?"

To tell you the truth, I don't know what to say to him. Not that I meant for it to, but that quip about Tatum's boyfriend kinda made me nauseous. Not that it matters, but I don't like the idea of her sleepin' with some married dude who's not gonna treat her right. "What do you want me to say?" I shrug, as though it's really not that bigga deal.

John throws a right hook into my gut that stops my stretching with a grunt. "How 'bout you ask me what Tatum said about you?" he offers, laughing when I clutch the place where his fist just landed.

Fucker. "Because I know her well enough to know that she wouldn't say shit to you, man," I assure him. Tatum's not much of a talker, especially to people she's not incredibly close to. She might maybe talk to Maria, but not John. Not a chance. "I'm happy, man. Just . . . let it go, alright?"

John nods his head and checks the chirping Trio in his pocket. "She still loves you. You know that, right?" he questions, quickly typing a response to the text he just received.

"It doesn't fucking matter, man," I explode without warning. To be honest, I didn't even expect it, but he's starting to piss me off. I am with Jamie. And I am happy with Jamie. Tatum is with her married boyfriend, and she's happy with him. Why can't people just leave well enough a-fucking-lone? "So we fucking kissed the other night? It didn't mean anything! It was just a stupid kiss."

John looks surprised, but I'm pretty sure not as shocked as I look. I didn't mean to tell him, or anyone. Ever. I didn't even intend to think about it again. In fact, I haven't been thinking about it. And until that moment when it came flying out of my mouth, it wasn't even on my mind now. What the hell, man?

And, as if he wasn't just the bumbling, stumbling alcoholic two seconds ago, the all-knowing John is back with his hands on his hips and that 'I know you better than you know yourself' expression on his face. "Just a kiss, huh?" he asks, and I wanna punch him in the face.

But that would give him the satisfaction of thinking it was more than a kiss. And it wasn't. Isn't. Can't be. We were a train wreck when we were together, and we're both healthy and happy apart. This is the best thing for both of us. We're just better apart.

I open my mouth to tell John just that, but he does that stupid mind reading thing again. "Things change, man." Shaking his head, he starts for the door, calling of his shoulder, "Things change," just before the door slams shut.

He's right. Some things change. Just not this one.


	10. Jamie's Confrontation

**The Forest for the Trees**

I have officially lost my mind. Just in case you were wondering if I knew that, I'm letting you know that I do. I mean, why else would I be here? Standing in this hallway, lookin' at this front door, getting ready to do what I'm about to do? There is no explanation other than my brain fell out of me ear on the plane. Doesn't change the fact that I have to do this, but still. Acknowledging the crazy is a step, right?

There's no response when I knock the first time, so I check the mapquest page in my hand and do it again. Maybe I should take the hint. Assume nobody's home. Maybe that's the smart thing to do, but since we've already established that I'm not exactly erring on the side of intelligence right now, I wait.

"Jamie?"

Here we go. "Hey, Tatum," I greet, tucking my blond locks behind my ears before stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Now that I'm here, and she is, I'm not exactly sure what the hell I'm doing. Oh, who am I kidding? I didn't know what the hell I was doing before.

She lowers the Starbucks bottle from her mouth and wipes her bottom lip with the back of her hand, her brown eyes wide with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Um . . . how do I answer that question? Motioning over my shoulder with a nod, I fidget in my place. "One of the guys opted for company-funded rehab instead of getting fired, so . . ." I leave the explanation hanging because my brain has already raced on to the next phase of explanation.

"You had to get him where he was supposed to be," she nods, a smile forming on her lips. Pushing the door of her apartment further open, she gestures for me to enter, standing aside as I shuffle into the small home. "But what are you doing here? In my house?"

She's not really one for small talk, that Tatum, ya know? All of the excuses and justifications are going to sound as flimsy as they really are, so I just spin on my heel and shrug my shoulders as I look at her. God, it's hard to look at her. "I need to talk to you," I say, fighting like hell to keep the cold edge out of my voice. It's not her fault that she feels like my enemy now. It's not her fault that I grow more bitter at the very thought of her every day. "About Randy," I clarify when she drops onto soft, camel-colored suede couch.

For a recovering junkie, her place is really nice. Comfortable. Homey. Lots of candles and rich colors. It feels elegant and expensive, even though nothing really looks new. I guess that's one of the perks of being a fashion designer, an ingrained sense of style. Yet something else that we don't have in common. Am I kidding myself to think that the man who once loved this woman so completely could also love me? My apartment looks like an Ikea showroom. There's no character in that, is there?

"Is this your boyfriend?" I ask, lifting a pewter framed picture of Tatum and the silver-haired man I met a few hours ago in the rehab center. She nods and takes another drink, watching me carefully. But she doesn't say anything. "So I know you and Randy hung out in Dallas," I open the conversation, hoping she'll fill in some of the blanks.

Of course, she doesn't. Just shrugs her shoulders, her gaze never wavering from me as I take a few steps and lower myself onto the edge of her throne-looking arm chair. "Yeah, we did." That's it. That's all she gives me, and in this moment, I'm not sure I've ever disliked Tatum more than I do right now.

I rest my hands on my knees, and I know I look like I'd rather be anywhere else. I would. To be honest, I'm not sure now why I felt so compelled to see her just a few minutes ago. "And you guys just, what? Chilled? Talked?" She nods again. This is, by far, the worst idea I've ever had in my life.

As I rack my brain for another question that might lead this exotic artist into spilling some secret about her time with my man, she reaches for a cigarette on the end table and lights it, her lips twitching into a grin. "You always this passive, Jamie?" she asks, her voice dancing with amusement.

"Pretty much, yeah," I level with her, since I can't really think of any other way to answer. I'd like to play it as cool as she is, but we're on her turf. I made the choice to bring this discussion into her house. I kinda feel like I have to play by her rules. Don't I?

She leans her head back against the couch and exhales a fine line of smoke toward the ceiling. "Look, you seem like a cool chick, right? I mean, John and Maria think you're chill. Randy obviously digs ya. So I'm gonna level with ya." Stretching her legs before her on the couch, she crosses her ankles and takes her sweet time in looking me over. Probably judging how 'not right' I am for her Randy. "Randy is the catch of the century," she says. When I raise an eyebrow, she seems to confuse it for doubt. "Seriously," she assures me. "He's the best of everything you could possibly want in a man. Randy Orton is the guy they write romance novels about." She takes another drag, closes her eyes and exhales, and then looks at me again with a dismissive shrug. "And he's yours."

Maybe I'm letting my imagination run away with me, but it seems like she might be snarling a little bit at that fact. I don't wanna seem catty, but I think it would make me feel better if she was. If I actually had something she wanted. "That bother you?" I ask her, allowing myself to scoot further back into the chair. I don't consider myself manipulative, but something about knowing I have something on her gives me confidence. Maria thinks Tatum is Randy's end-all, be-all perfect woman. And she wishes she was me. Ha.

Tatum nods, confirming my suspicion. "Little bit, yeah." She takes another puff and smiles easily. If she's so intimidated, why does she look like we're still playing this little posturing game by her rules? "But ultimately, I think both of our lives are in good places, and that's more important to me than any 'what if' or 'could have been.'"

"Do you miss him?" I don't know where the question comes from. Maybe because I know I don't have it all together all the time, and everyone seems to think that Tatum does now. I think I need to know that she doesn't. That there are things she regrets.

"To be really honest," she chuckles a little bit, "I'm not sure I remember enough of mine and Randy's relationship to miss it."

Maybe it's just me and my hyper-sensitive state of mind, but I'm not sure that makes sense. I mean, how can she tell me how great it was with him, and how he's the perfect man, but then turn around and say that she doesn't remember enough to miss him? Is it just me, or is that complete, "Bull shit."

"Excuse me?" Her eyes narrow, and I'm pretty sure I've just about over-stayed my welcome. "What is it that you want from me, Jamie?" Oh, I wish I knew. "Do you want the truth, or have you already decided what that is and you just want me to confirm it for you?" Swinging her legs to the floor, she leans forward to rest her pointed elbows on her knees. "Do you have a script for this conversation. 'Cause I'd be happy to read it. What role am I supposed to play in your fantasy world?"

Look, I didn't like her before I walked in this place, but now she's mocking me. And the fighter in me, the one that was beaten down like a ridiculous child for years by Josh, starts swinging. Standing, I rake my fingers through my hair and shake my head. "Both y'all have your stories," I tell her, remembering exactly why I came here in the first place. "And it seems like they match, but I can't help thinking that something is missing. Something's not being said. Something's still undone." She tilts her head like a confused puppy as she stands from the couch. "I just want it . . . I want it to be done."

Tatum turns to extinguish her cigarette and by the time she turns back around, I'm on my way to the door. I've accomplished what I came here to do, I think. There's really no reason for me to stick around. "Jamie," Tatum calls after me.

But I just pull the front door open and turn to face her one, last time. As far as I'm concerned, this is the last time I ever need to see Tatum Sharpe. "Figure it out, Tatum. And when you do, let Maria know so she can stop her plans for world domination or whatever." Pulling the keys to my rental from my coat pocket, I blink back the tears that unexpectedly slam into the back of my eyes. "And then fill Randy in, so I can either celebrate with my boyfriend, or buy some Ben & Jerry's and lock myself in my room to cry it out." She says nothing, only stares at the floor as I walk out and slam the door behind me.

Tatum's right, ya know? Randy's a great guy. He's everything I stopped believing that I would ever deserve for awhile. But this shit? This being caught in the middle of their unfinished business? I don't deserve this. And I'm not standing for it anymore.

I've heard Randy's side of the story, and I've heard Tatum's. I've told Tatum how I feel. Now all I have to do is fly to Minneapolis and tell Randy. Throw down the gauntlet, so to speak. Either way, this shit is going to end.


	11. Tatum's Problem with Maria

**The Forest for the Trees**

Ya know, I had it all figured out. I knew where my life was, and where it was going, and who all of the important players were. I was good with it, and everything was fine. And then Jamie showed up at my fucking house. And now I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with that shit she laid on me that night. It was only a couple of days ago, but that bitch got up in my head and now I can't let it go.

I tried to call Maria about thirty five times, but her phone is either off, or she just doesn't feel like answering. I've left voicemails and I've sent text messages, only to be completely ignored. I don't know . . . at first, I was angry. And then I was hurt. And then I felt really, really alone. I have the doctor and my sponsor and the staff at the rehab center. If I wanna talk about art or movies or whatever, I can call up some acquaintances from my NA group, but I only have one best friend. One place to go when I need real girl advice. Not having that refuge sucks.

So I took three vacation days and I flew to fucking Iowa. Because that's where John told me that they were gonna be. Because he actually answers his phone still. When I got here, he told me that Maria was working out in the hotel gym, and as far as he knew, she was alone. So that's where I'm headed, because I need her to be alone. I need her to be my best friend again.

"Hey," I greet her when I find that she is, indeed, alone in the large room. Alone on the floor, in front of the mirror, stretching her legs.

She looks over her shoulder and barely acknowledges me. "You come to spot me?" she asks as she leans forward to rest her chin on the floor before her.

Is it just me or is it really fucking frigid in this room? Did I do something to her that I'm not aware of? Did Jamie say something? Did Randy? "No," I offer her a weak smile when she only glances at my reflection in the mirror. "I, um, actually came to talk to you."

Sitting, she stretches her arms above her head and arches one eyebrow. "What about?"

I take that question as the only invitation I'm going to get, and take a step forward. Lowering myself to the bench press behind her, I lean forward and clench my hands in front of me nervously. "Um, Jamie came to see me the other day. At my house." Maria rolls her eyes, and for some reason, it makes me feel a little bit better. Like maybe she hasn't ditched me for a new BFF or something. "Yeah, she seems to think that you're trying to push me and Randy back together again."

Maria glides easily to her feet and bends to the side at her waist, seemingly all in one graceful motion while shaking her head. "If Jamie's losin' her grip on Randy, it's not my fault," she dismisses the topic easily.

Now I know something is wrong. Maria's not dismissive and distant and uncaring. Not normally. Not ever. In all the time I've known her, she's never been anything short of compassionate and warm. This cool demeanor is weird, and off-setting, and downright disturbing. "Yeah, well, whatever the reason she thinks it, I just wanted to let you know. . ." I stop short, because I'm not really sure what I wanted to let her know. That I'm in love with Randy still? That I'm not? That I want things to be like they were? That I want her help? What the hell **do **I want?

Before I can figure it out, Maria drops her hands to her sides, shakes them out, and then rests them on her hips. "Is there a reason you didn't tell me that John came to see you?" she demands, her wide eyes narrowed angrily.

Though I know it shouldn't, her question sends a flood of relief washing through my chest. She's not mad at me because of Randy and Jamie. She's mad at me because of John. I know, I probably shouldn't be happy about that. But that's a situation I can handle.

Sighing heavily, I stand from my seat. "Technically, he came to see the doctor," I start, but she's obviously more upset about it than she should be. "Come on, 'Ria," I smile, hoping that she'll see that my hands are tied. "You know that kinda stuff's confidential information. I can't disclose the identity of any patient, whether they're admitted or just evaluated."

Apparently, rules mean nothing to her, though, because she throws her thin arms out to her sides and looks at me as though I've just told her it's okay to offer babies as human sacrifices. "I am your best friend," she shrieks. "He is my husband!" Her hand pulls through her hair angrily and she looks at me once again. No, it's not a look, it's a glare. A death glare. "The least you could have done was fill me in. You know, better than anybody, how hard this whole thing can be on the entire family."

Ouch. This isn't the first time that somebody's thrown my past into my face in a 'you should know better' capacity. But it's the first time my best friend has. And as much as it hurts, it angers me. Maria's never been anything but sympathetic and supportive of me. Never, in all of the time I have struggled with sobriety, has she ever seemed remotely judgemental. I guess she was just harboring it for the moment when it would sting the most. "Gee, I don't know," I fire back sarcastically. Sarcasm is my only weapon in some instances. Or, at the very least, my most comfortable weapon. "You're so rational lately. I'm sure you would have handled the news just fine."

"No! You do not get to pin this on me!" I don't know if it's all the practice she's had with John lately, but this Maria isn't just firey. She's _firing_, at anyone who might be standing in her path. Yeah, I picked a great day to visit. "Your pent up, festering feelings for Randy do not take precedence over my crumbling marriage!"

What? I've seen a lot of addicts spew a lot of shit that doesn't make sense, but how in the hell did she twist what I said to mean that I think my issues with Randy are more important than her issues with John? I mean, until that dinner, I didn't even know she had issues with John. A few snide comments here and there in texts and during phone calls do not constitute sharing a problem with your best friend, as far as I'm concerned.

And ya know what the kicker is? I know Maria well enough to know exactly what she's doing. I know that she blames everyone within blaming distance when shit starts to go south in her own life. And I know that she will try everything to fix the problem, as long as it doesn't involve changing herself. It's not her best quality, but none of us are full of perfection and popsicles now, are we?

"Ya know what?" Shaking my head, I rest my own hands on my hips. "Maybe you should start worrying about how to fix that crumbling marriage a little more than you care about fixing those of us who are not even fucking broken!" I didn't say that understanding her was going to make me any nicer. She's yelling at me - what would you do?

"Oh, so now you've got it all fucking figure out, right?" Maria fires back, red tinges of blushing anger creeping into her otherwise flawless, olive complexion. "You get to preach at those of us who aren't so lucky?" Crossing her arms over her chest, she studies me for a second and then says, "My best friend didn't used to be so fucking judgmental."

I'm judgemental? Me? Because I told her that she could only fix her own problems? Isn't that what she told me all the fucking time while I was in recovery? And I'm the fucked up one? "Yeah, well mine didn't used to be so crazy psychotic," I shout back, suddenly too angry to look at her. For the first time in more than a year, I have needed my best friend more than anything in the world. And she's not here.

I spin on my heel, dramatically headed toward the door for my exit when she calls, "Don't you walk away from me, Tatum!"

"Talk to your husband, Maria," I call over my shoulder as I push the gym door open. "Fix your own shit, then we'll talk!"


	12. Randy's Spinning Head

**The Forest for the Trees**

I had a fucked up dream last night, man. Now, it's important you know that I don't scare really easily, but that fucking dream? It scared me shitless. I don't really wanna think about it enough to describe it to you, but suffice it to say that it was pretty much my worst nightmare. I just didn't know it, until I'd awoken from it in a cold sweat. Alone.

Jamie called me to say that she had landed in Minneapolis around midnight, and that she thought she'd be back to our room by two, at the latest. I saw two thirty before I tried to call and see what was keeping her, only to find her phone turned off. I don't know for sure what time I drifted off to sleep, but she wasn't back by the time I woke up. She didn't answer her phone when I called at eight, and I think she might have been avoiding me at the arena, too.

Then she breezed into my locker room long enough to tell me that she had to square some things away in Connecticut, but that she would meet up with me in Iowa. I didn't see her at the show, and I'm just hoping against everything that she's waiting in our room. I need to see her, feel her, smell her again. I need to hold her again.

It's weird, man. I mean, I know that Jamie and I haven't been together that long. It's right at six months, and things have been weird for at least half of that. But even though there's this tension, mostly coming from the direction of John and Maria, I find myself missing her when she's not around. I miss hearing her laugh when she is around. We don't laugh together nearly as much anymore as we used to. I miss that. And the way she tosses her hair over her shoulder when she teases me on her way to the shower. And the way she rolls her eyes when I say something she can't believe just came out of my mouth. I just miss Jamie.

Opening the door to our room in anticipation, my heart speeds up at the sight of her. Dammit, I'm not lettin' her get away from me tonight. I'm not waking up alone tomorrow morning, folks. No fucking way. "Fuck, you look good," I growl, barely managing to kick the door shut before moving to her the place where she sits at the hotel desk, clicking away distractedly at her computer.

She grunts in protest as I pull her out of her chair and wrap my arms around her in a tight hug. "Randy," she half-chuckles. Not what I was looking for, but I'll get a full-on Jamie giggle out of her before long.

Burying my face in her strawberry shampoo-scented hair, I lift her feet from the ground and then pull back just enough to capture her cheeks between my hands. "I missed you," I smile and press my lips to hers.

Usually, she'll forget everything she's doing for one of these kisses. Usually, I'll feel her arms around my neck and her body flush against mine. She's usually pretty easy to distract. But tonight, something's wrong. When I release her, she just turns around and sits back in her chair. "I have a lot of work to do," is the only excuse that she offers.

Work? She's passing up a reunion for work? Has she been talking to Maria or something? What the hell is going on? I would ask her, but her phone rings and she answers it without even looking at me. Without so much as holding up a finger to let me know that she'll only be a minute, and then she's all mine. Something's not right. I don't know what it is, but something's not right and I don't like it.

I hate not knowing what's wrong with my girl. The bubbling urge to grab her phone, hang it up, and demand that she tell me what's wrong so I can fix it for her makes it's way from the pit of my stomach. It's been a long time since I've felt that way. Been a long time since I've caught Jamie checking me from the corner of her eye like she is right now. Since she looked caged, almost scared. It's been a long time since I needed to feel this way.

"What the hell is going on?" I ask when she disconnects her call and drops her phone on the table. She just mumbles 'nothing' under her breath, but I don't like the way she angles her body away from me, like she doesn't want me to see her. Like I might see something I'm not supposed to. There's nothing I'm not supposed to see in Jamie. Our relationship isn't like that.

Sinking to the mattress, I try to wrap my head around what's going on. Five minutes ago, I was practically skipping down the hall to see her, so excited to just sit in the bed and watch television with her. Five minutes ago, she was the girl business ripped away from me. Now she's the girl using business to shield herself from me. I don't know why, or how, that happened.

"I want you to tell me the truth," she says suddenly, pushing away from the table, but staying firmly planted in her chair. About what? What does she want the truth about? I must look as lost as I feel, cause she just rolls her eyes. "About Tatum. About how you feel about her."

Tatum? This is about Tatum? Again? Jesus Christ, we've gone over this a thousand times, haven't we? When we were friends, I told her that I was letting go of the madness that was Tatum. Before we started dating, I assured her that Tatum was a part of my past. When Maria started all this 'reuniting' bull shit, I promised Jamie that she was the one I wanted to be with. "Jamie, you know how I feel about that whole thing." I think I might kind of be whining. It's not a pretty trait, I know, but it's what I do when I don't wanna talk about something. Sometimes I'm just an eight-year-old boy. I know it. You know it. Why deny it?

"Just," she sighs and pushes herself out of her chair, moving to my side and dropping onto the mattress. "One more time." Resting her hand on my leg, she tilts her head to the side. "Please."

Jesus God, I don't wanna go over this again. I don't wanna think about Tatum anymore. I don't wanna go back to that place. Jamie and I talk all the time about how healing and being healthy people is all about moving forward, setting goals and heading toward them, not living in the past. But how in the hell am I supposed to do that when she won't stop dragging me back?

"I loved Tatum," I tell her honestly, covering her hand with my own against my leg. When she doesn't pull away, I consider it a small victory. "There was a time when I thought that I would spend the rest of my life with her, but we were not right for each other." I reach forward, brushing my thumb against the line of her chin. "James, Tatum and I were codependent and out of our minds. We had passion, but that was about it," I tell her honestly all of the things I've told myself repeatedly for the last three years. "Baby, even if you weren't in the picture, Tatum and I would not have worked. We couldn't."

She turns her palm against mine and grips my hand tightly. "I went to see her. While I was in LA," she admits, and my heart starts racing again.

Tatum told her. That bitch told her about the kiss. I know she did. Where else would all of this shit be coming from? Now I not only have to tell her why I did it, but why I kept it from her. Dammit. "James," I start, praying that she'll forgive my indiscretion.

But she just put her index finger over my lips and closes her eyes, like she's the one who needs courage. "The spark's still there, Randy," she whispers. "I saw it in that restaurant. I saw it in her back in LA. Maria sees it, too." Maria probably sees little green men at night, too, but I don't think now's the time to point that out. "Hell," Jamie huffs, "John's fucked all to hell lately, and he can see it. Everybody but you seems to know that you were made for each other."

"Stop it," I plead. Stop telling me this bull shit that everyone wants to believe is true. Why is everyone trying to push me back to Tatum? Don't they think I would already be there, if that's what I wanted? "Look, if there's shit goin' on with us, let's lay it out there. If we have a problem that I'm not aware of, let's talk about it. But don't make this about her. She's got nothin' to do with this."

This time, it's Jamie's turn to look surprised. "You think we have problems beyond Tatum?"

I wish she would just stop saying her name. It's easier to not think about her when she's just a pronoun. "You've been distant for months. Avoiding me for the last week. Things are weird." I'm not stupid. How many fucking times do I have to say that? Can anybody hear me? Jesus. "You want your space, fine. I don't like it, and I don't want it, but I can handle it." She may be the one pulling away, but I'm the one that releases her hand and steps off the bed to hold up my hands in surrender. "Let's just stop making it about her, okay?" I'm counting breaths and trying to stay cool here. It's not easy, though.

"It's always about her," she whispers, meeting my gaze with glassy eyes, brimming with unshed tears. I would like to point out that it's always about Tatum because Jamie makes it about Tatum, but I those tears stop me in my tracks. Y'all know me well enough to know I'm a sucker for a girl in tears. "She's always there, Randy," Jamie goes on, her voice cracking. "In the back of your mind. She's a part of you." She looks at her hands and I see the tears begin to fall. "The biggest part of you," she adds in a voice that is barely audible.

"Was."

She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffles before looking back at me. "The part you don't want anymore?" I nod and she scoffs. "That's the problem, Randy."

What the fuck? Women . . . I swear to God, if any of you can explain this to me. I thought the problem was that Jamie thought that I was always thinking about Tatum. That's what she just said, right? But now she's saying that the problem is I don't want Tatum anymore? She is my girlfriend. But she's blubbering all over because I don't want my ex? "Huh?"

"I don't want you not to want that," she cries in exasperation, as though it should be obvious. Right. "That crazy passion? And the insanity? And the equal parts all-consuming love and hatred? The epic, mythic love that never really ends, no matter how many times you say it's over? Randy, I want you to want that!" She does? "With me."

"Are you on drugs?" I don't mean to ask it, but can you blame me? I mean, dammit. The last woman I knew that talked like this was higher than a kite most of the time. Jamie just screeches in frustration and stands from the bed, pulling at the hair on both sides of her head. "I'm sorry," I apologize quickly, immobilized still in my spot at the foot of the bed while she paces around. "But why, James? Why the fuck would you want me to want that?"

"Because I want that with you!" she explodes. I think, if she was closer to me, she might smack me in the back of the head. I don't know, but she says it like I should already know, and she usually pops me in those instances. Is it weird that I'm thinking more about whether or not she would hit me, than about what she just said? That's weird, right?

"I'm confused," is all I can manage to say. Because I am. And thinking of saying anything other than what I'm really thinking would just make me more confused right now, I think. Make sense? No? Then we're right on the same page, you and me.

As though taking the stage for some monologue or something, Jamie jumps onto the bed and looks down at me. "I love you, Randy." She loves me? We're not supposed to be there yet. Taking things slow. Seeing what develops. "In all of the ways that I'm not supposed to let myself love you. In all of the ways that I know you can't love me back." Did she stop so I could correct her? Because I see her mouth moving, but I'm still back at 'I love you, Randy.' "I love you in the irreparable, earth-shattering, forever kind of way that you love Tatum. And I cannot stop myself."

I know I'm supposed to say something, but I can't. I just . . . I can't.

She climbs off the bed and walks to me, grabbing both of my hands in hers and levelling me with a genuine, wide-eyed sincerity that nearly knocks me back. "I am begging you to just rip the band-aid off right now and tell me that you don't feel the same way. Let me be crushed, and figure out where I go from here. Just . . . I can't do this anymore."

Can't do what? Is she breaking up with me? Or waiting for me to break up with her? I'm gonna ask one more time, and somebody better answer my fucking question. What the hell is going on?

When I say nothing, she just shakes her head and grabs her purse from the desk. "Ya know what?" she sniffles and grabs the door knob. "Never mind. Forget I said anything," she says as she leaves.

Where'd she go? "Wait!" I call out as the door clicks shut. But I don't go after her. In fact, I don't move. Just look at the place where the bedspread is all rumpled because she was standing on it. Just a minute ago, she was standing there, telling me that she loved me. Not like a brother. Not like a best friend. Not like a simple, easy boyfriend. She's in love with me. And now she's gone, and the bedspread's all fucked up and I'm alone. Again.

Huh?


	13. Jamie's Breakdown

**The Forest for the Trees**

I know you all think I'm crazy. I mean, what kind of psychotic freak declares her love for the man of her dreams and then runs away like a moronic child? Way to prove my feelings, right? Would you believe that wasn't even the worst part? Oh, no, because the worst part is that I charged out of that room in a fit of humiliation and anger and confusion, and I felt good about myself. Like I made the right decision and took a stand. And then I got to the elevator and realized that I had absolutely nowhere to go.

Where do people go in situations like this? To a friend, right? Excellent, except I don't have any. Not really. I have colleagues, but you don't crash on a colleague's couch when you've had a fight with your boyfriend. The only people I do anything remotely friendly with in this place are John and Maria, and you know why I couldn't go there. Nobody. Not one single person that I could turn to.

It occurs to me that this is, in fact, a hotel. They have rooms here for people like me - the downtrodden and the confused and the . . . well, the hiding. Of course, this occurs to me now, at seven in the morning. It didn't last night, though. Not until I was already seated in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, after an agonizingly long night of trying to sleep in my car. So, yeah, not only am I swimming in grief and despair, I'm disheveled and rumpled and completely incoherent.

"James?"

If I wasn't so tired, I would whip my head around at the sound of John's voice. As it stands, I manage to raise my eyes in his direction and then lower them back to my cup of coffee as he sits across from me. "You look all wide-eyed and chipper," I grumble, more to myself than to him.

He thanks the waitress for the coffee that she brings him and then returns his focus to me. "Yeah, I'm feelin' pretty good lately."

I vaguely remember Randy telling me something about John deciding to lay off the alcohol a little since visiting Tatum in L.A. about a month ago. Isn't she just a fucking saint? "That's great, John. I hope things work out for you." I mean that - I do hope that things work out. Sorry I can't summon a little more enthusiasm about it, but I'm a little distracted right now, ya know?

"Are you okay, James?" he asks me, cradling his coffee cup as he leans back in his chair. "I don't mean this the wrong way, but you look kinda rough." I just nod, because I don't really feel like telling him about my evening in my car. But John jumps to his own conclusion. "What did he do?"

I just shake my head and take another drink. "He didn't do anything." I'm not sure he believes me, what with the way his eyebrow arches like that, so I just point to myself. "I did, John." Might as well own up to it. Randy'll just tell John about it anyway. They tell each other everything. Like bitchy little old ladies.

He groans and leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Not with Josh," he asks.

What? Oh, God, I think I just threw up in my mouth. "I didn't . . . ew," I shake my head to clear the mental image of myself EVER returning to my violent ex's bed. "I told him that I was crazy in love with him," I say, noting that even the sound of my own voice is a little shaky at the moment. Like I can't believe I'm saying it. Maybe I just still can't believe I did it. What was I thinking anyway? Just blurting it out like that? While standing on his bed? Who does that?

But John doesn't seem surprised. Now, lest you should think that I'm completely oblivious, I know that John hasn't exactly been buying my relationship with Randy to this point. He knows that we're friends, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't think that I'm really Randy's type. Not in the long run. "He didn't reciprocate?"

"Didn't really give him time to," I confess, wondering if he really even cares. I mean, should he? He's Randy's friend, not mine. In the end, everyone around me is gonna side up with whatever story Randy chooses to tell them. And he'll think of something, because I know Randy. And he has his pride. He'll say anything to keep people from thinking that he got ditched.

John sips at his coffee and looks around the room. Is he wondering if it's okay to just leave me here? If he'll look like a colossal bastard if he just walks away? Because, clearly, he thinks I'm crazy now. He should think so. I am. "Ya know," he starts when it finally seems he's had time to collect his thoughts, "Orton's a dick sometimes. Nobody knows that better than I do." At that, he chuckles. Like it's a joke or something. Maybe it is, but I haven't slept in awhile, so it doesn't seem all that funny. "But he's a good guy," John goes on. "At the core, he's a really good guy."

"I know." That's why I love him.

His massive shoulders shrug. "So what's the problem, James?" Where do I start? I'm terrified. I don't know how to do this. The last time I was in love, it wasn't exactly good for me. How do I tell John all of that? "What's there to be afraid of?" I don't even say anything and he still knows. I must be the most transparent person on the planet. "Loving him?"

Well, if he already knows what I'm thinking, what's it going to hurt to just tell him the truth? "Not just loving him," I confide, white knuckling the handle of my mug until it feels like it might break off in my hand. "Too much. Loving him way too much. I mean, that kind of love . . . this kind?" I can't help smiling. "It's insane, John."

"What's insane is being so fucking scared of it that you run in the other direction."

Now, I've known John for a minute. Like I said, I'm not sure we're friends, but I know him well enough to know that he's speaking from personal experience. From his recent predicament. I know what Randy's told me about the reasons that John's been drinking, and if this man is telling me that it's worse to run than it is to face the fear, maybe I should listen. Maybe. Of course, that doesn't answer the 'why' - he's never been the biggest advocate of the 'Jamie/Randy' happily-ever-after story. But maybe the way doesn't matter. Maybe it's the advice that I should be listening to.

He taps the table and looks around again, as if someone might be listening to our conversation. There are a couple of girls over his shoulder, but they're keeping their distance, so I don't think there's any point in worrying him. "Jamie, can I tell you something?" I nod. "The shit that scares you the most? That's the shit that fills you up. All the way to the top. Everything else is just," he shakes his head as he searches for the word. "It's just bull shit."

"But what if he doesn't want me?" I ask, my voice cracking. Ever notice how it's hardest to voice the things that the scare you the most? "What if he wants somebody else instead?"

"Tatum?" Again, I nod, but I can't answer him. I don't trust my own voice. "What if he doesn't, and you blow it anyway?"

If anyone knows Randy better than I do, it's John. Is he trying to tell me something? Or am I just wishfully thinking? I mean, I know what I've seen, don't I? But John's known him longer. He might know if there's something under the surface that I don't understand. Then again, maybe he's just trying to be nice. He's grinning like he's a nice guy, but I told you, I'm in a grouchy mood. So I just roll my eyes at him. "I liked you better when you were fuckin' drunk," I tell him and he laughs. Sounds genuine enough.

So I guess I need to talk to Randy, huh? But it's gonna have to wait because I need a shower, and then I have a meeting with creative. Oh, I love it when the rest of my life infringes on my love life. Don't you?


	14. Tatum's Last Ditch Effort

**The Forest for the Trees**

For an addict, 'one day at a time' is the most important constant. Don't worry about anything beyond today, beyond this hour or minute or whatever. You have to tackle life as it comes. Don't worry about the forest, just think about the tree that's right in front of you. Don't run into it, figure out how to step around it. Before you know it, you can turn around and look at the forest that you escaped. That's the concept.

But ya know what's really fucked up? When you turn around and you look at the forest, it's kinda pretty. And you didn't really enjoy any of it because the trees were just obstacles, not beautiful pieces of natural art. You don't look at the ground because you can't over think it, so you miss that amazing wild moss that grows everywhere. And you can't look for the birds singing in those trees, because you have to focus on the things that are in your way. You miss the whole fucking thing, and all you can really do is trust that you did what was 'best' or 'healthiest'. That the freedom of standing on the other side is better than anything you missed in the forest.

Except that you can't even enjoy the freedom, because there's another forest right in front of you, and you have to get through that one next. What I'm always wondering now is when it stops? When does living life stop being a chore and start being enjoyable? Isn't it supposed to be? At some point, aren't I supposed to love life completely? Not just fill it up with distractions that will help me get through the day. I'm surviving. I'm not living.

So when I left Maria in the gym yesterday, I went back to my room and called the doctor. I asked him that very question: When is it okay for me to stop trying to survive and just start living? Is that ever going to be possible? And ya know what that fucker told me? That I have to confront the only issue that I have completely suppressed. I told him that I'm not suppressing anything, and he told me that I'm only dodging every obstacle because I haven't uprooted the biggest tree in the entire forest.

"Hey, you."

Oh, look. It's the fucking redwood. "Randy. Hey," I smile softly from my place behind the arena. It's been a hot minute since I've found myself backstage at a WWE event, and I thought I could do it. But stepping inside has been kind of a trip, so I just texted him and asked him to meet me. Baby steps, kids. That's all I can do.

He accepts the light that I'm offering and we puff slowly on our cigarettes, avoiding each other's eyes and opening our mouths to speak without actually forming any words. God, why is it so hard? I can be honest about damn near everything else in my life, so why can't I just do that with him? Why can't I just fucking open my mouth and talk about this last hurdle?

"Look, I'm not gonna waste your time, Randy," I blurt without thinking. Because if I think, I won't say a damn word. I won't be able to. "You and I have been dancing around this issue for a long damn time, man." I expect him to ask me what issue that is, but he just nods. "I tell everyone they're full of shit, but I think the truth is that I am.

"I am full of shit every time I say that I can do this, Randy," I turn toward him, watching his profile as he continues to refuse to glance in my direction. "I can't keep pretending that I can be me without you. That I'm better off without you." There. I said it. Out loud. To the person that I'm supposed to to say it to.

So why isn't he saying anything? Why isn't he nodding anymore or throwing his arms around me and telling me that he agrees? "You and I both know it's not healthy," is all he gives me, taking yet another puff.

Maybe he's just not ready to admit it yet? Maybe he just needs a little more prodding. "See, that's what I thought, too," I tell him. He needs to know that I see where he's coming from, and that I was in the same place not so long ago. Thinking that being with him would mean that I couldn't live without him. That it would mean relapsing and all of those horribly co-dependent things that I don't want to be ever again. But none of that is true. "Randy, I know that I can live without you. I know that I can get in that car," I point toward my rental, "fly back to LA, and live a perfectly fulfilled life without you in it."

"Then why are we even having this conversation?"

Now that I've started laying it out there, nothing seems so hard anymore. All of it feels easy flowing out of my mouth. "Because I don't want to. I don't wanna be me without you. My life is better when you are in it, Randy Orton."

He just flicks his cigarette and turns to me, his hands on his hips. "You can't possibly know that." He shrugs his shoulders. "You and I have never been good. We've never been together like that, Tate." Shaking his head, he finally meets my gaze. "You can't possibly know all that shit." He sighs heavily, and I can tell that it's not easy for him to say that, but I can also tell that he believes it.

But that doesn't mean that I can't change his mind. Doesn't mean that we're not right for each other. Because more than I have ever believed anything in my life, I believe that we are meant to be together. "We were, Randy. We were right," I plead with him to just hear me. "It was twisted, and it was fucked up, yes. But underneath it, we were everything true romance and beauty. There are parts that we don't know yet," I concede his doubts, "That we can't possibly know. But I really want to try it. I want to try to make it work with you."

"Why?" His eyes flit to my hand on his arm and then back to my face and I see the little boy who just wants someone to tell him the truth, and let him believe that the world is how it should be. I see the man that I fell so desperately in love with. "I mean, why now?" he asks, conflict written all over his expression. "After three years, Tatum? We are both in good places. You have a man. I have Jamie," he lays out all of the reasons that we can't possibly work.

But I've thought of all of those things already. And then some. I don't think I would have done this if I hadn't thought of how we can overcome those obstacles. "What is the point of having someone if it's not the person you're fucking nuts about? What the hell is the point of going through life with someone who's just good enough? Especially when you know that there's someone out there who is fucking perfect?" I settled for the life I thought I deserved for years, and it led me to rehab and a fucking life that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I'm not doing it again. Not if I can help it.

Randy says nothing - just looks at me and then the ground. He's shaking. I don't know if he's aware of that, but his arms are shaking. Tears are collecting in the corners of his eyes, but he's trying like hell not to let them fall. I don't want to hurt him, but we can't keep running from this shit. Jamie was right about one thing when she stopped by my place the other night. This shit has got to stop. Business has to be finished.

"Look in my eyes, Randy," I beg him, grabbing his hand so he can't turn away. He doesn't. "You and me? We're cut from the same cloth, kid. And I know you. I know that you love what you do because you love traveling around the world and seeing new things, meeting interesting people. I know that your favorite parts of traveling overseas is dancing in the rain in Paris, and swimming naked off the coast of Morocco. I know that you love being able to do whatever the hell you wanna do on your days off, no schedules and no responsibilities."

I think it would have confused him less if I had just waited for him to walk out the door and then smacked him over the head with a frying pan. Maybe I could have started speaking Mandarin, because I think he might have understood that a little more clearly. Or at least looked like he did. Instead, his face is all screwed up and I think he might be getting a headache.

The best thing to do in this situation is probably back off and give him some time to think about it, but I'm not known for doing the best thing. So I just tightened my grip on his hand and take a step forward. And I go for the jugular. Because, let's face it, all is fair game in love, right? "Can you honestly tell me that Jamie is the kind of girl you can live that life with? The one who can show you the passion and the liberating lifestyle that you need to be happy?" He flinches, and I think maybe I got through to him.

But he doesn't answer. He just opens his mouth to speak and then snaps it shut again, like he doesn't trust his own words at the moment. Okay, so NOW is the time to back off.

"Look, I know it's a lot to spring on you like this," I tell him, squeezing his forearm while he stares over the top of my head. "I just felt like I had to let you know where I was coming from. I want you to think about it," I tell him and pull my car keys from my pockets. "My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 6:30. And I don't wanna give you an ultimatum, but I would really love it if you would come see me off."

And with that, I leave. I don't know what Randy's going to decide. And I don't know what I'm going to do if he decides to stay where he is. As of right now, with the way I feel about him and the life that I know we could have? I just can't see anything else being as perfect.


	15. Randy's Final Answer

**The Forest for the Trees**

**A/N: So this is the end of the trilogy, where I officially say good night and goodbye to Tatum and Jamie, as well as this story's version of Randy. Thank you to anyone who has read the story over the course of its telling in three parts, and thanks especially to Kim who is the one who pushed me not only to write this installment, but to post it, as well. Hope you Enjoy!**

* * *

They say that life is nothing more than a collection of decisions. Some are minor: breakfast cereal and toothpaste brands. Some are major: career paths and life partners. And some seem insignificant at the time that we make them, and then turn out to be life-changing in scope. If only we knew the difference at the time, ya know? If only we could tell which decisions would turn out to be the good, the bad, the minute, and the life-altering. If only our lives came equipped with crystal balls or, at the very least, an understand of how everything works together. It's kinda like that movie, _The Butterfly Effect_, I guess. Even the smallest, most thoughtless things, can change the entire course of your life.

I've always known that, on some level. But what the hell? I mean, what was Tatum thinking, just showing up at the arena to tell me that she still wants to be with me like that? That we belong together? How does she even figure that? We've never been together! Not like this - not healthy. What if we don't even like each other anymore? I mean, we've seen each other for a total of about eight hours in the last three years. People change a lot in that amount of time, ya know? I'm not the same guy I was three years ago.

Am I? I mean, all that stuff she was talking about? The traveling and the freedom and the spontaneity? She's right. I do love that stuff. Just like I always have. Not to sound like a cliche, but it's kind of an indescribable natural high, ya know? There's nothing like cliff-diving in Costa Rica or surfing in Australia. Nothing like locking yourself away from the world in a Vermont cabin for a weekend with a woman that you love, not really caring if anybody outside those four walls needs to get in touch with you or not. I sure as hell haven't put any thought into giving any of that up.

I think a part of me has always known that the Tatum door was still open, that it had never really closed. And a part of me knew that, at some point, I was going to have to make this choice. I just didn't think it would be so soon. When Jamie jumped on that bed, it sent my head spinning off in one direction. Then Tatum said her piece, and I found myself spiralling off in a totally different way. I tried to think of the pros and the cons, but it's really like apples and oranges, isn't it? I mean, Tatum and Jamie? You can't even compare them.

I mean, Tatum is free-spirited and artistic. She's passionate about everything that she does, and it shows in everything from the way she dresses to the way that she expresses her affection. When I'm with her, it is definitively the best or worst thing I have ever felt. It's like being in the plane before a sky dive. I mean, you get up there in the heights, and you look around, and you can't even imagine NOT wanting to be there, because it's the most breath-taking thing ever. And then, when you're just getting used to the view, she pushes you out of the plane and you find yourself plummeting toward the earth. And it's terrifying, and you think about the million ways that this thing could go wrong. And for most of the trip, you don't even know if parachute is going to open. Sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes it feels like you've been broken into a million little pieces, and the scars might never heal. And you find yourself thinking that this was the worst situation you have ever gotten yourself into. And then you turn your head, and there she is. Sometimes better, and most times worse, for wear and looking as beautiful as ever. That's when she holds out a hand for you to do it all over again, and you can't help thinking that all of this pain and suffering might just be worth that view from up in the plane.

Jamie, on the other hand, is even-tempered and administrative. I know that doesn't sound like much of a compliment, but for a guy like me? It's the perfect complement. My life gets pretty crazy, right? I have flights and shows and signings and appearances pretty much all the time, ya know? And some days, I don't know, man. Some days it feels like I'll never make it through. Days when my suitcase has exploded all over my fucking hotel room and I can't find the trunks I want for the show that night, and I'm already twenty minutes late for my meeting with Vince, and the stupid room service bastard brought me a hamburger instead of a turkey burger, and all I wanna do is throw it at him to relieve some of the tension? When the chaos that is my life is at it's absolute worst? Jamie. She's the one who grabs my trunks from the place they landed behind the television cabinet, pays the room service guy while calling Vince to explain that a few fans had me tied up in the hotel lobby but that she'll make sure I make it to the arena to meet him with plenty of time to spare. That's when she hangs up the phone, tells me to eat as much of the fattening hamburger as I can stomach, and then packs my duffel for the evening. And she's the one who gets up at 5:30 the next morning to work off the extra calories the next morning when I just can't stop thinking about them.

So you tell me - which is my dream girl? Huh? What do I want? The crazy sky dive that is Tatum? Or the security and stability that is Jamie? What do I want? Ultimately, does it even matter? I mean, Jamie made her decision, right? She ran out on me. Just left me standing there. And hasn't talked to me since. Tatum, however, seems to have also made her decision. And that decision is being with me. So if one walks out on me, and the other throws herself at me, the decision should be easy, right?

"I can't believe you came!" Tatum screeches before I can even get through the doorway of the airport bar. She throws her arms around my neck and clings to me like I might slip away if she bothers to let go. So I hug her back, breathe in the scent of her hair, and let years of memories flood over me. "I wanted so badly to believe that you would, but . . ."

When she doesn't finish the sentence, I follow her to the table she'd been occupying and sit, my eyes immediately drifting to the glass of red wine next to her empty plate. "Drinkin' on an empty stomach, Tate?" I ask her with a raised eyebrow. I don't wanna be judgemental, but the evidence is kinda right in front of me, ya know?

She just rolls her eyes and lights a cigarette before clanging the ice in a glass of water in my direction. "I've been staring at that thing for twenty minutes," she nods toward the glass. "Tryin' to psyche myself up to down it if you didn't show."

There was a time when that statement would have shot me in the heart. It would have convinced me that I made the right choice in coming to Tatum, because she couldn't possibly stay sober without me. But that time has passed, and we both know that we're not the same people we were back then. I'm not going to save her from herself. She's doesn't need to be saved. "I can't stay long," I tell her after a long silence. "Show tonight," I add, checking my watch as if to convince her that I'm telling the truth.

She takes a long drag of her cigarette and nods. "I'll take what I can get," she smiles widely, and I can see that her eyes are starting to brim with tears. Sniffling, looks to the ceiling and then back at me with a self-deprecating grin. "I'm sorry. I mean, I just didn't expect," she starts.

And I have to interrupt her. I can't bear to see her like this for another second. "Tate," I whisper, reaching across the table to cover her hand with mine. "You were right. Back at the arena, when you said that you and I were cut out of the same cloth, you were right. We were." Her dark hair shimmers in the dim light from the lamp hanging right above us. There's an expectant sparkle in her eyes. And I'm not sure that I will ever look at another woman the same why I look at her. She's my Tatum, and she is perfectly imperfect. Every scar and flaw is beautiful. Which is why it feels like a knife in my heart to say, "But we aren't anymore."

Unapologetically, she lets the tears fall over her cheeks and then catches them on the corner of her lip with her tongue before scrunching her nose and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She takes another drag and then offers me the weakest smile I have ever seen. As if my heart had never broken for her before, it shatters at the sight before me. "Who are you, Randy? If you're not like me, not that guy anymore, who are you?" There is a fire in her eyes that makes my heart sink.

"It's not about who we were. Or even who we are today," I start to tell her, not sure if I'm even making any sense. I mean, it makes sense in my head, but who the hell knows if that ever comes out in a way that anyone else can understand it. "We've changed a lot already, Tate," I plead with her to understand me, but I can already see her shell hardening. "I just want something," I stop when my voice catches in my throat. This is even harder than I thought it would be.

"Better?" she fills in for me, her dark eyebrow arched, as if she's challenging me. Like she wants to fight. Fuck, for all I know, she'll punch me in the face before I leave. Wouldn't be completely unheard of.

But she's wrong. I don't want something better than Tatum. There has never been a time, ever, that I have thought of anyone as better than Tatum. "Different," I correct her with a heavy sigh.

When she digs in her purse for the cash to pay her tab, I stand from the table and grab the wine glass between my fingers. She looks up, mouth opened to correct me, but I drain the glass before she has a chance. God, I hate wine. But I hate more the thought of her staring into the face of that temptation when I walk away. I'm well-aware that she can just order another once I'm gone, but I'm looking at this as my final chivalrous act as far as Tatum Sharpe is concerned.

She doesn't so much as glance my way when I exit the restaurant, and I'm not sure that surprises me. My relationship with Tatum was a myriad of things, but never friendly. We pretty much fell in love the first night and ran, balls to the wall, until we crashed and burned. If we aren't together . . . we aren't anything.

There's a small voice in the back of my head that says I should be mourning the death of that relationship. And, in my own time, I think I will. But all I can think about is what I'm going to say to Jamie when I get back to the hotel after the show tonight. I know I won't have time before, but dammit if I can stop myself from whipping out my blackberry and texting her that I want to meet her in my room at midnight. And then I hold my breath until she texts back just one letter: **K**.

---

I have nearly paced a rut in the floor of my room by the time Jamie raps her knuckles against my door at midnight. Crossing the room, I yank the door open and can't fight the smile. She's gorgeous - has been since day one. Blond hair and angelic features, Jamie is everything that I never thought I was looking for. But she's everything I want. Of course, I can't just tell her that, so I step back and let her into the room.

She walks purposefully, her hands moving slowly up and down the thighs of her jeans as she looks at the mess I've managed to create for myself. And even Jamie can't fight the smirk at just how lost I am without her. Her cheeks are glowing pink, and I'm not sure which of us is more nervous right now. "You want a drink or somethin'?" I ask her, heading toward the mini bar.

But Jamie shakes her head. "I'm good," she manages to whisper as she lowers herself to the corner of the bed. "So, I owe you an apology, Randy," she starts, licking her lips like she always does when she's anxious. "I mean, I laid a load of shit on you and then just took off. Avoided you. None of that shit's fair to you." Tucking her hair behind her ears, she just looks at the floor and then at me. "I tried to find you earlier, but John said you had an errand to run or something."

She thinks she has to apologize? That almost makes me laugh. Instead, I just go to her side and lower myself to the mattress. There's my girl's strawberry smell. God, I didn't realize how much I missed it. "I went to the airport," I tell her. "Tatum was in town for a few days, and she was flying out today." The look in her eyes is, at the very least, just as heartbreaking as Tatum's tears were earlier. "She told me that she wanted to try and make us work again," I explain, wishing more than anything that there was a way to tell her this part that wouldn't hurt her more than my past with Tatum already has. More than the last few months already have. "And she asked me to see her off today if I was interested."

"So you went to see her," Jamie nods slowly, rolling her eyes as though she already saw that coming. She starts to stand, but I grab her arm and pull her back down to the bed. "Randy, it's okay. I'm okay. This is what I asked for. I mean, I told you to rip the band aid off. I get it. I do. It's not like I didn't see it coming." Without thinking, I lean across the distance between us and press my lips to hers. Maybe it sounds lame, but I really couldn't think of any other way to shut her up. Or any other way that I _wanted_ to shut her up. "What are you doing?" she asks frantically, jumping up from the bed.

For a minute, I think maybe she's going to run again. But she just starts pacing the same place I was earlier. "I went to see Tatum at the airport to tell her that I'm not the same guy I was back when we were together, and that there was no future for us."

"Us? As in you and me?" Jamie asks for clarification.

But I just shake my head and smile for the first time since she stepped over my threshhold. "Me and Tatum. We were wild, crazy kids when we were together. And it was good - I'm not gonna lie to you. Things were very, very good," I just cross my ankles on the floor and lean my arms back on the bed. "And sometimes they were very, very bad. And sometimes things with us were both. Up and down all the time, and it was fine. Because we were just kids. It didn't matter. We didn't have to be anything else." I hold my hand out to her and wait for her to take it.

She does, and walks to the bed, folding her legs under her as she plays with the fingers of my right hand. "And what makes you think you have to be something else now?"

Oh, I could tell her the story, but it's long and it's kinda . . . well, it's sappy, okay? And I'm not sure I want to tell her that, when I finally came inside the arena yesterday, after Tatum had left me, I was all fucked in the head, so I decided to go for a walk. And when I got to the corner, I saw Stephanie coming out of one of the rooms. She was wearing jeans and no make up, not at all like the Steph I've come to know and love over the last few years. I'm not sure she was even supposed to be working yesterday. She and Hunter have this schedule where they each spend time with the kids when they're on the road. I don't really know all the details.

Anyway, she was carrying her youngest kid - I never can remember their names - when Jamie came out and stopped her.I don't know what they talked about - it was a long hallway and I couldn't hear. But Jamie handed Steph a piece of paper and then Stephanie held her hand out. Jamie handed over her phone and Stephanie thrust that kid right at Jamie. And I stood there, watching my girlfriend look at this kid in her arms like she didn't have a fucking clue what she was supposed to do with it. And it was the cutest thing I had ever seen.

That's when Hunter came out of the room, with the older kid on his hip. That little girl can talk, let me tell ya. 'Course, none of us ever know what the fuck she's talkin' about. She's only three and she doesn't make a damn lick of sense, but she'll tell you the most elaborate stories if you get stuck listenin' to her. And wouldn't you know that yesterday, Jamie did. As soon as Hunter sat the midget on the table behind Jamie to listen to whatever phone call Stephanie was prattling away on, the little kid just starts talking Jamie's ear off.

I don't know why, exactly, that everything became clear right then, but it did. That was the defining moment.

"Alright, look," I finally say after a few seconds of her watching me curiously, "I don't really know how to say this. I just know that I used to be the guy who couldn't stomach the thought of being tied down. It made me feel sick. Physically ill. I mean, 'settle down' was, like, the most offensive thing you could possibly say to me. Marriage was out - I was never gonna do that," I chuckle at the thought of many family dinners with my mom begging me to find a nice girl to settle down with. Oh, I fought her so hard. She's gonna love Jamie. "God forbid my aunt or my grandmother ask me about kids. Shit.

"Tatum was the perfect girl for me back when I was that guy, James," I tell her, tightening my grip on her hand when she tries to pull away. "But I'm not that guy anymore."

What is that look in her eyes? Is it fear? No. Ya know what? I think that's sheer terror in Jamie's eyes. Great. Now I've scared her off. "Are you saying that you wanna start a family?" she asks, her voice shaking at the very thought.

Releasing her, I hold up my hands in defense. "Not even close," I promise her sincerely. "All I am saying is that, up until yesterday, I thought that life, and especially relationships, had to be either/or. That I could either have the crazy adventure that I had with Tatum, or I could have a calm, easy, beautiful life with you." Her nose scrunches up at the words I've used to describe her. Why does everyone act like a life devoid of drama is a bad thing? Maybe I'll ask her that later. Not really the point right now, is it? "But I don't think that anymore, James."

"You don't?"

I laugh and stand at the foot of the bed, trying to slow my thoughts enough to put together a sentence that actually makes sense. "Hell, no," I insist. "We're headed where tomorrow?" Without hesitation, she tells me that we're going to be in Nebraska. "Great," I clap my hands together and think about the last time I was in Nebraska. "Okay, not so great. I don't know Nebraska well. What's after that?" She rattles off something about Salt Lake City. "That's perfect! Utah is perfect. I know a place in the mountains there. I can call my friend Jake, make sure it's free. Then we'll rent some skis. Do you know how to ski?"

This time, she actually chuckles, but it's the kind of laugh that says she thinks I'm crazy. "Randy, we will get to Salt Lake around noon, and then you have a signing at two. After that, you have a house show, and you know we won't get out of there until almost eleven. By the time we get to this cabin you're talking about? It's gonna be after midnight," she crunches the times as sensibly as she always does. God, that's why I love her.

Of course, I don't really care about time right now. "So?" I shrug and she just rolls her eyes at me. "Alright, forget the skiing. But this cabin, James? It has this enormous fireplace - it's amazing. And there's this cheesy-ass bear skin rug that I always roll up and put in the closet, but how hot would it be to just lay around naked, making love in front of the fireplace on that damn rug? Snow fallin' outside? Just you and me?"

"It would be great," she starts, pulling her blackberry from the pocket of her coat. "But, Randy, we already have reservations," she starts.

I cross to her and take the blackberry from her, tossing it onto the chair. "You said the other night that you wanted to have a spontaneous, passionate, crazy relationship with me, right?" She starts to answer, but I just push her back on the bed and stretch out beside her, my cheek in my palm as I rest on my elbow. "Jamie, I love you."

"You do?"

Can she really be that surprised? I mean, it's not like this just happened over night? But she's so damn adorable when she asks that I can't help smiling and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Yes, I do. And there's this crazy tequila bar in Mexico that I wanna take you to the next time we're there. And the next time we're in Wales, there's this little bed and breakfast that I have to take you to. It's run by these two gay dudes who also herd sheep in their spare time. Sometimes, you wake up in the middle of the night with one of 'em starin' right in the window." She raises an eyebrow sharply. "The sheep, not the guys," I correct myself and notice that she's starting to smile. "And I wanna take you cliff diving and maybe I can talk to this Swiss magician that I know about teaching you the art of being sawed in half," I start to list the number of things I want to show her that I know she'll think are crazy.

But she stops me short when her hand stokes my cheek softly and she considers me carefully. "What if it's not what you want, Randy?" She captures her bottom lip between her teeth. "What if I can't keep up with you?"

Okay, have you guys been listening to me? Because I don't think Jamie has. I don't think she understands that life is not about a nonstop thrill ride for me anymore. So maybe you could explain it to her? "I don't want our relationship to be what mine and Tatum's was. If that's what I wanted, James, I would be on a plane back to LA with her right now." Cradling her cheek in my palm, I run a thumb over her bottom lip. God, she's beautiful. "No rules, baby. This is our love story. We get to write it however we want."

"And that's sweet, Randy, but what if you get bored? I mean, I'm not exactly up for cliff diving and race car driving and all that other shit that you talk about? That stuff that makes your eyes sparkle and your heart race? The 'swinging from the chandeliers' sex up the ass bull shit you seem to love so much? That's not me. What if I'm just not exciting enough for you?"

Is she kidding? I just press my lips to hers and capture her hand against my face, directing it down my chest and below my waistband. Pulling away, I whisper against her lips, "Do you seriously think you're not exciting enough for me? Really?"

Do you guys remember how I told you, way back when I first started tellin' you the story of my crazy, chaotic, fucked up life, that I finally realized that I don't now anything at all? Well, when Jamie swings her leg over my body and pushes me back against the bed, I realize that I've learned something in the last few years: I can't save anyone but myself, but if I'm in the right place, at the right time, with the right girl, it doesn't matter. I don't have to save her. I just have to love her. Life takes care of the happily-ever-after.


End file.
